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Molly Bawn 

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54y“ As it Fell Upon a Day ” 
Lady Branksniere 


PRICK.. 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

BE READY EOR ALL CHANGES IN THY FORTUNE/^ 

In the orchard the sudden burning sun is drawing up a 
warm soft steam from the moist earth. Already the walks 
■ are growing carpeted with the white arid pink wealth of 
the apple-trees that are now so old and gnarled as to be 
venerable. 

Soft gleams of light are stealing shyly through the 
branches, and are clinging tenderly to the ivied walls of 
the ancient gateway. Everything is so remarkably still 
that the humming of some bees in the blossoms near sound 
ridiculously loud, and the twittering of the sparrows under 
the eaves almost oppressive. ‘‘ A sense of heavy har- 
monies makes itself felt, and every moment the heat 
seems to grow more pronounced. Indeed, this April sun- 
shine is as hot, as languorous, as though it belonged to its 
sister of June. 

Last night the rain fell noisily, the morning as it broke 
was still washed with it, and the dawning was dull and sor- 
rowful; Lut now a full and perfect noon is at hand, and 
the air seems only the sweeter for the refreshing showers 
that deluged the hours of darkness. 

Some straggling rose-trees that are fighting hard with 
the gooseberry-bushes for room to fling wide their arms are, 
even thus early, covered with red buds; drooping honey- 
suckles are making gay the gaunt old walls, and over there 
in the little three-cornered grass plot — that is the joy of 
Angelical’s heart — a 

“ Lilac’s cleaving cones liave burst, 

The milk-white flowers revealing." 

is a bleating of lambs in the grassy fields below, a 
sound of quick litc in the haggard where the young calves 


6 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


are sporting in the spasmodic awkward fashion that they 
know. A cry from the lone cuckoo comes from the dewy 
woods of Branksmere far, far below. Nature has roused 
at last from its long rest; the world is wide awake; a young 
and hai^i^y world, growing hourly into a fuller beauty. 
Blowers are sj^ringing beneath the feet, 

“ And grace and beauty everywliere 
Are flusliing into life.” 

Even the gray old house itself, that looks as if centuries of 
^uns have gilded it from time to time, seems to-day to have 
yielded once again to this latest Apollo, and to have grown 
fresher, warmer, because of his embrace. 

Outside the house, indeed, all is sunshine. Alas! inside 
all is gloom ! • 

They are sitting, every one of them, in the old school- 
room, in solemn conclave, and in a stiff, though unpre- 
meditated, circle. As a rule it is toward this rather dilapi- 
dated apartment they always verge when perplexed, or 
rejoiced, or angered about anything. Margery is sitting 
well forward on her chair with a little angry pucker on her 
pretty forehead. Angelica, a little slender maiden, with a 
face that resembles her name, is looking distressed; Peter, 
embarrassed; Dick has taken his sleek head into his hands 
and is gazing moodily at the carpet, as though bent on 
i^iercing the ink stains to find the original pattern; the 
twins, sitting side by side in their little dimity pinafores, 
are plainly ready for open war at a mementos notice. 

‘‘ To think that she should be coming to-night!” says 
Margery at last. Now that Muriel has deserted the home 
nest and is away on her wedding-tour, Margery, as Miss 
Daryl, seems to have gained a little in dignity. “ When 
it was a fortnight from us it seemed nothing — even a week 
ago we could breathe! But now — ^to-night !^^ 

It is terrible. I feel half dead with fright,^^ murmurs 
Angelica, j^l^-intively. ‘‘ AVhat will she do? Send us 
away?’^ 

‘ ‘ Scatter us to the four corners of the earth most likely. 
Turn us out of doors without a penny. 

“ WonH she give us anything to eat?^^ asks one of the 
twins — Blanche — in an awe-stricken tone. She looks at 
May, her twin sister, who is a plumjo little thing of about 
eight or nine, with a glance of the deepest commiseration. 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


7 


She herself is delicately fat too, and indeed the children 
are so alike in all respects, that without a distinguishing” 
mark it would at times be impossible to know one from the 
other. Dormer, the old nurse, has sought to solve this 
mystery by the means of two little ribbons, one white, one 
pink, to be fastened somewhere on their frocks each morn- 
ing. But what is easier to the frolicsome twins than to 
change their beds at night, when Dormer is loudly snoring, 
and confound by this means their identity in the morning? 
To-day, for example, by this simple device, Blanche is 
May and May is Blanche. They are ingenuous children, 
and their countenances do not conceal the fact that they 
are in a frame of mind distinctly hopeful, anything in the 
shape of a row being sweet to their souls. 

‘^Not so much as a crust,^^ says Dick, the second 
brother,. lifting his pale student face from his hands to 
gaze at the children with brilliant eyes, in which a quaint 
gleam of mirth is always shining. ‘‘ Out youTl go supper- 
less. Oh! what a little time lies between you and utter 
destitution. The day is far spent. Soon the night will be 
here, and with it our unknown but ogreish sister-in-law. 
Poor little May and Blanche, I pity you!^^ 

“ It wonT be worse for us than for you,^^ says Blanche, 
indignantly. But Dick has gone back to his original posi- 
tion with his head in 4iis hands. Perhaps he is enjoying 
the situation a little ! 

“ So odd, her never writing us a line,^^ says Margeiy. 

I argue from that that she is sure to be a distinctly 
difficult person.'’^ 

But perhaps if we — Did any of us write lo her?'’ ^ 
asks Angelica, nervously. 

‘‘ Certainly not! Why should we?"’^ demands Margeiy. 

When first Billy wrote to say he was engaged to her, we 
learned she was a person — a — a nobody, in fact, who was 
being paid by two old people (cousins or something of hers) 
to take care of them, and considering B'^' ' oor 



liapa s deatii, is the head oi the house, and must be a 
baronet some day, we — we naturally thought he should 
have done better, so we didnH write to her.^^ 

‘‘ And now the tables are turned,^^ says Peter, stretching 
i.: : .«ii:g arms lazily, and she is the Croesus, and we the 
••nnections. Well, I should think shoo’d remember 
;■ ; I^m rather repentant now we didn^t write.^^ 


8 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


‘‘ Tilings are difPerent now, of course. Then she was — 
goodness knows who — now she proves to be General Orme- 
rod^'s niece, and has come in for a tremendous fortune by 
his death. 

“ Why couldn^t Billy have given us a hint?^^ murmurs 
Angelica. ‘‘ Or, why didnH we write afterward 

“ Because we were ashamed, guessed one of the twins 
promptly, and Angelica is instantly crushed. 

Nobody is ashamed says Margery, with a rather 
heightened color. But we need not waste time discuss- ^ 
ing absurdities. The thing is that Billy and she are com- 
ing here to-night from their honey-moon, and that I ex- 
pect we shall receive but scant civility at her hands. Oh! 
if Muriel were only here to help us. 

“ Now, that^s a thing that makes me more uneasy than 
anything,^ ^ says Dick, suddenly growing intensely earnest. 

Murieks marriage, 1 mean. Did you notice her face the 
day of the wedding? It was a study. What was there in 
it when she stood at the altar with Branksmere? Was it 
terror, or nervousness — or — or hatred?^ ^ 

Margery has brushed a book off the table near her with 
an awkwardness foreign to her, and now stoops to pick 
it up. 

“ Hatred of whom?^^ asks Angelica. 

“ Why, that is just it, of course. Of whom? Staines 
was in church, but I should think it was all at an end be- 
tween him and her, or she wouldnT have married Branks- 
mere. ^ ■’ 

‘‘ Yes, I saw Staines. Considering the marriage was so 
private, and considering, too, that he had once been a 
lover of hers, I thought it excessive bad taste his being in 
the church that morning, says Peter, slowly. 

“ Then where does the- hatred come in?^^ asks Angelica, 
curiously. Margery casts a swift glance at her, but the 
younger girl does not catch it. 

“ Where, indeed ?^^ says Dick, a little vaguely. “ Not 
for Staines, according to Peter; and not for Branksmere, 

I — suppose. 

‘ ‘ Let us keep to the subject in hand, says Margery, - 
perhaps a little sharply. “ How can you all guess and 
worry about an imaginary ill, when the real thing is so 
near?'’’ 

“ What a change it will all be, ” says Dick, sud'lenly, as 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


9 


if following out a train of thought. Billy, who has been 
so seldom here, now master; and Margery epo dsed from 
her post as mistress for an utter stranger.- Something tells 
me we shall be not only the wiser, but the sadder for the 
coming of this new young woman. 

‘‘ Perhaps she is an old young woman,^' says Angelica. 

‘‘ Catch Billy doing a thing of that sort,-’^ remarks 
Peter. Not likely. She^s young, you take my word for 
it. And they say youth is intolerant. Dick, I ’ share your 
uncomfortable presentiment. I feel we have caught a 
Tartar. 

“ Poor old Billy! If that be so there is a pebbly walk 
before him,’’^ says Angelica, with a sigh. ‘‘ And when 
one comes to think of it I believe Billy was about the best 
of us, too.-’"' 

‘‘ He was,^^ says Peter, in the subdued tone of one who 
is conversing about his beloved dead. “From my soul, 
I^m sorry for him! Marriage with a woman of that sort — 
a virago, as I feel sure she is — means eternal misery. Be- 
cause, if you douH murder her by quick means she mur- 
ders you by slow ones. Billy used to be as good-natured a 
fellow as one could ask to meet. What he is now, beneath 
that woman^s influence, I donT pretend to know. Dear 
old boy; he has my sympathy at all events. He ’was 
always so quiet, so — so — Here his eloquence receives a 
check. “ What is the word? So — confound it,^^ says he 
— “ What I mean is that he was so — so — 

“Quite so,^^ interrupts Dick, gravely. “I entirely 
a^iTee with you, and am sure he was all that, and a great 
L- al more.^'’ 

“ I wish to goodness Muriel hadnH chosen this time of 
ad others to go and get married,'"’' says Margery, almost in- 
dignantly. ‘ ‘ She would have been the correct person to 
Uiceive them. She is always so calm, so self-possessed, 
'/here is a dignity about Muriel that nothing could ruffle, 
not even a sister-in-law who is coming to drive us all into 
Jie wilderness. 

“ A rash statement, says Dick, sententiously. 

“ Not a bit of it. Do you think twenty Mrs. Daiyls 
20uld make Muriel tremble? On the contrary, the twenty 
would tremble before her.^' 

“ My dear, pray, spare poor Billy. He is not the anx- 


10 


LADY BEALsKSMERE. 


ions proprietor of a liarem; lie is afflicted with only one 
Bill tan a/’ 

“ Pshaw! — Pm not thinking of Billy/ ^ says Miss Daryl, 
impatiently, “ but of Muriel. I wonder you can all be so 
blind to the fact that she is the one who could have coped 
successfully with this — this — 

Entr’acte, suggests Dick. 

This difficulty. She is the only person I know who 
never gets frightened or flushed by pressure of circum- 
stances; who defies nervousness. Altogether,-’^ cries 
Margery, with a glow of admiration, “ I regard Muriel as 
one whose dignity could not be lowered.-’^ 

‘‘ She must be a phenomenon, then,^^ says Dick, ‘‘ as I 
never knew any one whose dignity could not be destroyed 
by a well-planted blow in the stomach This low and 
rude piece of information is received in utter silence. The 
twins are guilty of an ill-timed attempt at a giggle, but 
are summarily hushed into a silence befitting the occasion. 

Perhaps — after all — Billyhs wife will be nice,^-’ hazards 
Angelica, vaguely. Everybody stares. This startling sug- 
gestion puts Dick's vulgar speech to flight at once. It is 
no more remembered. 

‘‘Nice? Nonsense! What would make her nice?" de- 
mands Margery. “ Did anybody ever hear of a nice heir- 
ess? They are all the poorest of poor creatures." 

“ Ah exclaims Blanche, breathlessly. “Well, I 
never knew that before! I always thought an heiress was 
a person ^vith big bags full of gold!" 

“And?" 

“And now you say she is a beggar," says the child, 
excitedly. “ The poorest of the poor." 

“May blessings light upon your verdant head!" inter- 
poses Peter, gayly. “ No, my good child, you are wrong 
for once. Our heiress is not a b^eggar. " 

“ SheTl be worse than the usual run of 'em, I shouldn't 
wonder," says Dick, with predetermined miseiy. “ Her 
being so abjectly poor when Billy first met her and fell in 
love with her will only heighten the arrogance that I feel 
certain distinguishes her now. That sudden springing into 
a fabulous fortune will make her doubly unendurable." 

There is so much grim prognostication in his tone that 
Margery's heart dies within her. 

“Oh, that ]t was to-morrow morning!" she cries. 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. H 

pathetically. Upon her, as Miss Daryl, will fall the hor- 
rors of having to make a gracious display of welcome. 

“ I wonder when she became rich she didn^’t throw Billy 
over with a vie^ of gaining a more distinguished ^ 

some one is saying when she brings herself back from her 
dismal imaginings. It is Angelica who is speaking, and 
her speech, savoring as it does in an aside sort of way of a 
wish to take the port of the new-comer, is received with a 
marked disfavor. 

“ I dare say she was ashamed! Things had gone so far 
with her and him,^^ says Peter, who, though as a rule care- 
less of his neighbor's shortcomings, seems determined to 
find fault with the new sister thrust upon him. But I 
expect why she didnrt brave everything, even the world^s 
censure, was because Billy must get old GrumjDy^s title 
sooner or later. And a title is dear to the soul of the 
venue.” 

She caiirt be called that, Peter. It appears she is as 
well born as any of us. But her father was so poor that — 

“ W^ell, yes. That^s so, of course,^ ^ acknowledges Peteiv 
magnanimously. “ But what I mean is that she wanted 
to be ‘ my lady.-’ 

“ ^ Grumpy ^ is good for many a year yet.^-’ 

I hope so. Until I can take my degree at Cambridge 
at all events. I can’t say I admire Sir Mutius as a private 
individual, but as an uncle who can pay my college fees he 
is— pretty well. ” 

‘‘ ‘ Sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thank- 
less child,” quotes Dick, mournfully. 

I’m not his child, the gods be praised,” returns Peteiv 
stretching himself lazily. 

Has a serpent got a tooth?” asks fat little May, with 
round open eyes and wonderment. I thought they 
sucked everything!” 

“ I know one serpent who has got lots of teeth,” re- 
sponds her youngest brother, with calm but crusliing force. 

Regular molars!” — this last word seems full of doubt and 
horrible suggestiveness to the listening May — and it is 
coming here to-night.” 

“ Don’t be filling her poor little head with nonsense, 
Dick,” says Angelica, softly. 

I don’t know how Sir Mutius could be poor mamma’s 
brother,” ponders Margery. One — so soft, so sweet, so 


LADY BRAITKSMERE. 


^ 12 

perfect — the other — ugh!'’^ She purses up her pretty 

mouth into a regular Oh!^^ of disgust. 

He looks so commonplace/^ continues Angelica, ‘‘ so 
vulgar. He says his lineage is above reproach, and the 
title certainly is old — ^but, Mumm. Was there ever such 
a name? It suggests nothing but trade and champagne. 

‘‘ Tell him so.°^ 

‘‘ Thank you! I donT want my head in my hand.^^ 

‘‘ What a combination the entire name is. Sir Mutius 
Mumm! Tm certain our maternal grandparent was a wit, 
and gave that Christian name to his only son as an heir- 
loom.'’^ 

Margery leans back in her chair as she says this, and, 
forgetful of the coming misery, laughs aloud. Such a 
gay, pretty, heart-whole laugh! It does one good to hear 
it. 

“Is it possible that I can hear you jest with such 
trouble staring us in the face?^^ says Dick, reproachfully. 

, “ Think of to-night, and what it is bringing you.'’^ 

“ It will bring Billy, too, though, says Blanche, with 
a touch of defiance in her childish treble. “ Billy won’t 
let her touch us.’"’ She has evidently great faith in the 
eldest brother. 

“ Billy, indeed! I expect we shall have to call him 
. William now,” declares Margery, gloomily. 

At this Blanche gives way to a sudden, irrepressible sense 
of amusement, and chuckles very loudly. 

“Fancy calling Billy — William! Oh! it’s nonsense, 
stuffy nonsense. ‘Good-morning, William,”’ — putting 
on a grown-up air — “ ‘ I hope to see you well, William!’ 
Ha, ha, ha! I never could do that. I don’t care what his 
wife says. I’ll always call him Billy. Why, he doesn’t 
look like anything else.” 

“ Wait till Mrs. Billy hears you. She’d be as mad as a 
hatter if she heard such a disrespectful, frivolous term 
applied to her husband!” 

“ If she is,” murmurs Angelica, patting the twin’s dim- 
pled hand reassuringly, “ we’ll tie her!” 

At this time-honored joke they every one laughed in a 
body, with all youth’s tenderness for an ancient friend, as 
though it was the freshest in the world. 

“ Mrs, Billy y” repeats Margery softly from the low seat 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. 13 

near the fire. “Ah! how I wish she was some one who 
might be called that. It would so settle things. 

“ Don ^t delude yourself with false hopes. I '’m certain, 
Blanche, if you persist in playing the fool with those straws 
and the fire, you ^11 see yourself presently at an untimely 
end, and I don^t suppose our new relative will be pleased 
to find the house redolent of roasted pork on her arrival. 

“ Peter! don't be horrid." 

Oh! yes; it is quite true," cries May, excitedly. “ I 
read the other day that Mr. Mongoose, the African ex- 
plorer, declared human fiesh was quite — quite — that is — he 
said we were all pigs." 

“ May! If you will read abominable things of that sort 
please keep them to yourself. Oh! dear, how the twilight 
is coming, soon it will be night, and then — I don't in 
the least know how I shall receive her. " 

“ Throw your arms around her neck. Press her to your 
throbbing too-o-smi. Break into sympathetic sobs, and 
cry, ‘ Sweet sister, how glad I am to welcome you to these 
ancestral halls. ' " 

“ Not if I know it," exclaims Miss Daryl, indignantly. 

I think I see myself, indeed!" 

“ Very silly of you, my dear; there isn't a looking-glass 
within a mile of you, so far as I know. " 

“ I wonder if she will be big?" twitters May, who is 
rather irrepressible, alluding to the unknown Mrs. Daiyl. 

“Huge!" replies Dick, promptly. “A regular strap- 
per! Stands five foot eleven in her vamps. And wjdks 
about the farm all day long in top-boots and leggings, and 
a cart-whip with which she lays about her generously. 
There is one small peculiarity, too, in our new sister which 
may be mentioned," continues Dick, leaning confidentially 
toward the somewhat disconcerted twin. “ She can't bear 
little girls! Any sort of girl is obnoxious to her, but little 
ones drive her into a fine frenzy. I have heard from relia- 
ble authority that she could willingly — ^nay, gladly — flay 
them alire!" 

“ Oh, Dick!" says May, whimpering sadly, 

“ Fact, I assure you. I'm awfully sorry for you and 
poor Blanche^ but I don't see how I can helj) you. I doubt 
there's a bad time before you." 

“ Eichard — to business!" interrupts Margei^, shortly. 
“ You'll give that child softening of the brain if you per- 


14 


LADY BKANKSMEEE. 


sist in your present evil courses. I am sure, too, it is fooK 
isli to be so down-hearted. Billy will see we are not alto- 
gether flung upon the world. 

I dare say. But madam will see that we march, 
nevertheless. She will hardly like to have so many gue«ts 
perpetually in her house. 

“ Who can blame her? I shouldnH like it either,^^ mur- 
murs Margery, sighing. Perhaps she will effect a com- 
promise, and propose keeping the children here with her.^^ 

At this hopeful prospect the twins, without a word of 
warning, set up a dismal howling. Dick^s picture is still 
fresh in their minds. They dissolve into floods of tears, 
and are with difficulty even so far restored as to be able to 
give a cause for their grief. 

Oh, Meg!^^ cry they, flinging themselves bodily upon 
Margery, you wouldn^t do it. You know you couldn^’t 
do it! Oh! donH leave us behind you. If you must go 
take us with you. DonT leave us alone with her, Don-’t 
give us up to that awful big woman with the cart-whip. 

Their wailing is piteous, and rather oppressive. 

‘‘ What a nuisance you are, Dick,^^ says Peter, impa- 
tientlv, “ filling the heads of those silly children with such 
folly. 

^N'o — ^110, dear little cats, we will all go together,^ ^ 
Margery is saying soothingly to the twins. It is plain to 
everybody that she is very nearly on the brink of tears her- 
self. 

“Oh! why are we not more fortunate or more rich?^^ 
she sighs. 

“ I shouldnT care to be rich. I should like to be fa- 
mous,'’^ says Dick, slowly. 

“ I shouldn't care to be either. Extremes are a bore. 

I only ask to be comfortable,"’^ puts in Peter, with another 
lazy yawn. “ Even Croesus had his troubles. Money goes 
but' a short way."’^ 

“With some people, certainly,^-’ laughs Angelica. 

“ On the road to happiness, I would have added, my 
sweet angel, says Peter. “IPs poor stuff, when all is 
told.^^ 

“ Is it? I should like to have a trial of it,^^ returns 
Margery, diyly. 

But Peter is not listening to her; he is instead caroling 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. 15 

at the top of his fresh young lungs a verse in favor of his 
merry theory : 

Then why should we quarrel for riches, 

Or any such glittering toys? 

A light heart and a thin pair of breeches. 

Will go through the world, brave boys! 

“ I donH think that^s a nice song, Meg, do you?'^ asks 
Blanche, who has hardly yet recover^ from the late storm. 
*^And I shouldnH like a thin pair of breeches when we 
start — ^would you? Because winter will be coming on, and 
we should -be cold.^^ 

This infantile touch of caution convulses Peter with de- 
light. 

What shall we do when first she is cross to us, Meg?^^ 
asks Mary, nervously, whose thoughts are still upon the 

big woman. 

‘‘Fall upon her and rend her limb from limb, suggests 
Dick, severely. 

“ Smite her, hi]^ and thigh, supplements Peter. 

“ I wish Tommy was here,^"* says Margery, suddenly. 

Though only a cousin, and quite the greatest iool I know, 
still he is a sort of person that one can speak to.""^ 

“ Or even Curzon,'’^ murmurs Angelica. “ By the bye, 
I wonder he hasnH been here all day?^^ 

“ I don^t see what good he would be except to sit in 
Meg^s pocket and stare at her as if she had seven heads. 

‘ ‘ He doesnT sit in my pocket, returns Miss Daryl, in- 
dignantly. “ I never heard such a libel 

“ Even if he did he might sit in a worse ifiace,^^ says 
Anglica, sweetly. 

“ Ah! talk of somebody, cries Margeiy, quite forgetful 
of her ill-temper of a moment since. “ Why, there he is 
— coming across the lower lawn. IT call him. He hasnT 
heard a word about their coming to-night. 

She runs to the window, pushes the casements wide, and 
makes a wild effort to attract the attention of the tall fig- 
ure in the distance. 

“ Curzon! Curzon! Hi! Mr. Bellew! Drat him! I 
donH believe he has got an ear in his silly head,^^ says 
Miss Daryl, who is not particular as to the nicety of her 
language when immersed in the bosom of her family. 

Cui’ — ^zon! Curzon! I say!^^ 


16 


LADY BflANKSMERE. 


‘‘ Elegant language! Superfine, upon my word/^ says 
a grufi voice at this moment. Does it come from heaven 
or the earth beneath? A balcony runs outside the school- 
room, extending from it to the library, and over this bal- 
cony the voice seems to come. 

“It’s Grumpy himself I” exclaims Meg, in a horrified 
tone, falling back into Peter^s arms. 

“ Uncle MutiusT^ whispers Angelica. 

“ Then mum^s the word,^^ says Dick, throwing himself 
hurriedly into the nearest chair. 

The heavy sound of pottering old footsteps, the thud of 
a stout stick, and now — Grumpy! 

Sir Mutius, stepping through the open window into th& 
school-room, looks laboriously around him. He is not, 
perhaps, aware that there is a young man behind him, wha 
is following his footmarks as fast as his legs can carry him. 

“ So,^^ says Sir Mutius Mumm, with a sniff, “ this is 
how you comport yourself, Margery, when the eyes of your 
relatives are not on you. 

“ As — as I am now, uncle? demands Margery, who is 
sitting in the demurest attitude possible to her, with her 
hands crossed dutifully before her. “ I — I am very sorry 
to disappoint you in any way, but I would hot abuse your 
trusting nature, uncle, and conscience compels me to con- 
fess that I doiht always sit like this. Sometimes I — stand. 

“ And sometimes you halloo at young men out of a win- 
dow, stutters Sir Mutius, angrily. “ How dare you be 
so impertinent, miss? D^ye think I haven T got eyes in my 


head, eh?^^ 


“ Even if you had I don T see how you could hear out of 
them/^ says Margery, who is in a mutinous mood. 

“ What I want to know is, returned old Grumpy, strik- 
ing his stick savagely upon the carpet, “ how you, who 
probably call yourself a respectable young woman, can ex- 
plain away the fact of having yelled an invitation to a. 
young man across an acre of grass, and of having used in 
my hearing such a low term as ‘ Drat it.^ I only vdsh your 
aunt Selina had heard you.^^ 

There is somewhere in the dim recesses of Mumm^s Hall 
a gaunt spinster, sister to Sir Mutius and aunt to the young 
^ ose name has been transmogrified into Selina by 



That^s very unbrotherly of you,^^ says Margery, 


LADY BEANKSMEEE. 17 

“You should he anxious to spare her all the pain you 
can. 

There is a touch of open mischief in the lovely, broad lit- 
tle smile that accompanies this willful speech. 

Sir Mutius swells with rage. He is a short, stout little 
man, with a corporation, an overweening opinion of his 
own importance, a fiery eye, and a sandy wig. Besides all 
these qualifications, he has a temper that knows no con- 
trol. What the crushing remark he is preparing for 
Margery may be is never known, because at this moment 
the young man behind him comes into full view. 

It is plain, however, to the Daryls that he had not known 
he was following Sir Mutius, because of the fall of his in- 
genuous countenance as his eyes meet those of the irate old 
baronet. He is a tall, indeed a splendidly built young 
man, with a figure that Hercules need not have sneered at, 
but with a face, alas, that falls far short of the figure. His 
eyes, perhaps, are above reproach, so clear, so blue, so 
straight-looking they are, but as for the rest of him I his 
nose is impossible, his mouth huge, his cheek-bones dis- 
tinctly en evidence. As for his mustache, it is not worth 
speaking about at all, and his hair is abominably void of 
curl. He is ugly! There is no doubt about it, he is dis- 
tinctly ugly, but with this saving clause — that nowhere, 
under any circumstances, could he be taken for anything 
hut a gentleman. 

The presence of Sir Mutius seems to freeze him in part. 
He pauses with his foot midway between the balcony and 
the school-room, and looks anxiously at Margery. 

“ Come in, young man, come in,^^ says Sir Mutius, in 
an odious tone. “What are you afraid of, eh? Seems to 
me that a young fellow like you must consider himself 
almost one of the family to enter a house through a win- 
dow like a burglar, as you have done. 

“ And as you have done,^^ says the new-comer, smiling. 

“ Never mind me, sir. An uncle may come in by a win- 
dow, I suppose, when a young jackanapes — Is there no 
hall -door to this house, I ask, that you must needs charge 
through a casement, as though you were a mounted 
dragoon, or the most intimate friend of the family?^^ 

After all. Sir Mutius, perhaps I am that/'’ says the 
tall, ugly young man, with a conciliatory smile. “ In- 


18 


LADY BEAlsKSMERE. 


timate, I mean. V\e been coming here, off and on, ever 
since I can remember anything. 

“ Then the sooner you put a stop to your eternal com- 
ings the better,^ ^ says the baronet, angrily. ‘‘ Margery 
evidently expects your visits, and — 

Uncle exclaims Meg, rising to her feet with a face 
suffused with indignant shame. 

I assure you you are wn-ong. I did not come to see 
Margery. I came to see Peter about a terrier pup, inter- 
poses Sir. Bellew, with a haste that might be termed 
agonized. “ You remember, Peter?^^ 

Peter doesnT, but, with a noble desire to succor the 
weak, declares at once that the Irish terrier in the yard 
shall be Curzon^s without any further delay. There is no 
Irish terrier in the yard. 

Thanks, old man,^^ says Mr. Bellew, heartily. At this 
moment he is indeed intensely grateful. 

‘‘ I doiiT believe a word of it,'’^ declares Sir Mutius, with 
true grace. ‘‘ Terrier! What terrier? Which terrier? 

I tell you, young man,-’^ advancing on the astonished 
Curzon. But Angelica, who has been terrified all along, 
here rushes to the rescue. 

“Oh! Uncle Grum — Uncle Mutius,^ ^ she corrects her- 
self, nervously, “ are we not unhappy enough without your 
adding to our misery? Mrs. Daryl, Billyhs wife, is coming 
to-night. 

“ P’m delighted to hear it. I hope sheTl prove a woman 
^vith a character,^ ^ says Sir Mutius, with a withering glance 
at Margery. “You all require a person who would keep 
you in order. 

“ To-night! Nonsense! AVhy, when did you hear?^’ 
asks Curzon, in a low tone, of Margery. 

“ A telegram to-day at one,'’^ curtly. Then with a re- 
turn to that grievance arising out of his frequent worship- 
ing at her shrine, “ J^ow I hope you see what your persist- 
ent and ill-timed visits here mean to me.^^ • 

“ That I love you.^^ 

“ Stuff and nonsense !^^ says Miss Daryl, indignantly. 
“ They mean public castigation at the hands of that bad 
old man. Oh! how I wish you were in Jericho 

She moves away from him, glad in the thought that he 
is stricken to the earth, and advances on her uncle. 

“ Now that you have made us all unutterably miser- 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


19 


able/ ^ she says, tearfully, ‘‘I hope you^’ll go away. If 
that horrid woman is coming to-night there are things that 
must be looked to. See?^^ with a little stamp. 

“ Dear Uncle Mutius, you will understand how busy we 
are, and have been, all day, and how many thing have still 
to be done, and you will forgive Margery for seeming a lit- 
tle overdone,^ ^ puts in Angelica, with her soft smile, squeez- 
ing the impetuous Margery^ s arm just a little. You 
are going now? Ah, that is good of you. Good-evening, 
dear Uncle Mutius.'’^ 

There are moments when the youthful Angelica, who is 
yet only half child, half woman, seems older than Mar- 
gery, who is quite nineteen. Peter is twenty, Dick seven* 
teen. After Angelica there was quite a pause until the 
twins came — and the mother went. There was a pause, 
too, after the birth of Billy and Muriel, who are four and 
three years older than Peter, but after that the children 
seemed to tread upon each other^s heels, so fast they came. 

The mother^’s death had been hardly felt, they were so 
very young. But with the death of the father — an event 
now two years old — there had come the sad knowledge of 
moneys s value, and all the petty miseries that accompany 
straitened means. 

Sir Mutius — Mrs. DaryPs only brother — an old bachelor 
who lived at Mumm^s Hall, a place situated about four miles 
from the Manor where the Daryls resides had looked after his 
dead sistePs children in a snappish, unsympathetic fashion 
when the last blow fell, and the death of Mr. Daryl had 
been followed by the certainty that he had been living con- 
siderably beyond his means for many years, and that noth- 
ing but debts and a very insufficient income was all he left 
behind him — except the eight children. 

That was — as I have said — two years ago, and the sadly- 
lively, merry-mournful family had up to this struggled 
through all difficulties with a strength that only youth 
could grant; but now to-day fresh trials have seized upon 
them. The eldest brother, Billy, to whom} indeed, the 
house and land (such of it, at least, as is not mortgaged up 
to the hilt) belongs, is bringing home a bride. A stranger! 
Horrible word ! And who is to greet her? Who? There 
is no one at all to go forward and face the enemy^s guns, 
now that Muriel is away. Now that Muriel is married! 
And so strangely! 


20 


LADY BEAlSrKSMERE. 


CHAPTER IT. 

WHEK Y"OU COME IJS^TO ANY FRESH COMPANY — 1, OB- 
SERVE THEIR HUMORS; 2, SUIT YOUR OWN CARRIAGE 

thereto; by which insinuation you will make 

THEIR CONVERSE MORE FREE AND OPEN.'’"’ 

“ There^s a ring at the door-bell; did you hear it 
cries Angelica, rising to her feet, pale and nervous. They 
have come! I feel it; I know it, by the cold thrill down 
my back.-’^ 

It is some hours later, and the Daryls are waiting en 
masse in the rather shabby library, and in the very lowest 
spirits, for the expected coming of their brother and his 
wife. How, at last, all is indeed over! 

“ Yes! and there is the knock. They^ve come to a 
moral, says Peter. The twins grow i^ale. All in a body 
move solemnly toward the library door. 

“ Good heavens! why isnT Muriel here to receive them?^^ 
gasps Margery, hanging fire on the threshold. Why am 
I to be the victimized one? I feel as if I should like to 
faint.'’^ 

Peter! a pin,'’^ says Dick, with stern determination in 
his tone. 

“ No, no. Ifil go, of course,^^ declares Meg, hastily. 

Only — She pauses, and looks as though she is on the 
point of tears. 

“ DonH be a goose, puts in Peter, not unkindly. She 
wonH eat you! She can^’t even blow you into fine dust on 
so short an acquaintance. Here ! step out. Put your best 
foot foremost. Quick! march! And, for goodness sake, 
take that lachrymose expression off your face. It would 
hang you anywhere. If she sees she is unwelcome, sheTl 
make it hot for us later on.^^ 

“ Shefil do that anyhow, says Dick, grimly, to whom 
there is evidently a soupQon of enjoyment in the whole 
affair. “ Go on, Meg. You shouldnT scamp your duty. 

“Pm going, whimpers Margery. She takes a step 
forward with what she fondly, but erroneously, believes to 
be a valiant air, and tries to think what Muriel would have 
done on such another occasion as this — Muriel, with her 


LADY BRAN-KSMERE. 


21 


calm, haughty face, her slow movements that she hastened 
for no man^s pleasure, and her little strange smile, so cold, 
so sweet, that could attract or subdue, as its owner willed. 
There is a dignity about Muriel that she wishes she could 
copy, if for “ this occasion only — a savoire faire — a sense 
of breeding, a — 

‘‘ Blanche! if you tread on the tail of my gown again, 
breathes Miss Daryl at this point of her meditations in an 
augry whisper, ‘‘ ITl tear you limb from limb.'^' 

This awful threat being received by the culprit with the 
utmost indifference, the train once more advances. The 
hall is reached. 

Mary Jane is just opening the door, and her back liair 
is all down,'’^ telegraphs Peter, over his shoulder. He is 
with the advance guard, and has, besides, an eye like a 
gimlet. It is sticking out like a furze bush,'’ ^ he goes 
on, excitedly. To the front, Meg — and don't give Mrs. 
Daryl time to notice it, or our reputation is lost forever. 

“ And the time I took over that girPs get-up, groans 
Angelica, despairingly. 

“If you could manage to throw yourself into Mrs. AVill- 
iam^s arms and lean heavily on her, all will be well,^^ 
whispers Dick. “ YouTe a well-grown girl, and weight 
always tells. Do anything — ^liurt her, even — but donH let 
her see our Mary Jane.'’^ 

“ Oh, why wasnT Muriel here?^^ returns Marger}^, with 
quite a shiver of nervous horror. 

Go along — ^yoiPll do well enough at a pinch, says her 
brother, noble encouragement in his tone, as he gives her a 
friendly push that sends her — with what the new-comers 
imagine to be most flattering haste — ^right into the glare of 
the lamp. 

Here, at the hall-door, there is a slight confusion. A 
little bundle, apparently made up of Eastern shawls, is 
standing near the hat-stand. A young man is fumbling 
hopelessly with these shawls, and Mary Jane, who has now 
finally got rid of the small amount of wits that once were 
hers, is courtesying profoundly and imceasingly. 

“ After all, she isnT Irish, she is a Hindoo,^ ^ whispers 
Dick; “ she thinks she is once more in the presence of 
Vishnu, the Pervader. See how she mops and mows.' Poor 
thing. She is very mad.^'’ 

Margery takes the final step. 


22 


LADY BKAJs-KSMERE. 


You have come, she says, timidly advancing 

toward the young man who is trying so hopelessly to disen- 
tangle the little parcel of soft goods. 

“ So we have, so we have,^^ cries Mr. Daryl, in a cheery 
voice. He is a man of middle height, the very image ot 
Margery, and he now abandons his efforts to unravel the 
little form, to go to his sister and give her a hearty hug. 
‘‘Oh! there you all are, exclaims he delightedly, seeing 
the other figures drawn up in battle array in the back- 
ground. “ Look, Willy! Here they all are in a body to 
bid you welcome. 

“ Look!'’^ laughs somebody from beneath the mufflings. 
“Oh! how I wish I could. I wonder if 1^11 ever look with 
living eyes on anything again! I^m just smothered.'’^ 

Billy having kissed the children, who are frightened, and 
shaken hands with his brothers, who are stolid, now once 
more attacks the bundle and finally brings out from it his 
wife with quite a flourish as distinctly proud of her. 

“ He is new to it,^^ says Peter, with fine contempt, turn- 
ing to Angelica. 

“ She^s — she^s pretty!^’’ returns Angelica, slowly, and as 
if just awakening to something. 

The meetings, the introductions, have been gone 
through. Mrs. Daryl is quite a little woman, with clear 
eyes, that have looked with leisurely keenness at each of 
her new kinsfolk in turn. Her mouth, if firm, is pleasant. 
There is no self-consciousness about her, and no shyness 
whatever. 

“ Nice old hall, Billy, she says, smiling, when she has 
spoken to every one, and is at last at liberty to look round 
her. 

Nice! All the Daryls exchange covert and furious glances 
at each other. Nice, indeed! when they have been accus- 
tomed to pride themselves upon it as being (which it really 
is) the finest hall in the county. 

“ I should just like to see the one she has been used to,^^ 
mutters Peter, with extreme disgust. 

“ Dinner will be ready in about five minutes,^ ^ says 
Margery, suggestively. “ You must be very tired, and — 

“ Dinner! Ah, you should have mentioned that, Billy, 
says Mrs Daryl, brightly. “ We dined at Watton about 
two hours ago, and to dine again so soon would be dread- 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 23 

ful. As to being tii'ed, I never felt fresher in my life. 
But you must all go to dinner, and — 

We dined early. It makes no difference at all,^^ says 
Margery, slowly. “ You will like a cup of tea instead, 
perhaps? 

‘‘ Presently. When I have talked to you all a little, 
arranges Mrs. Daryl, promptly. I think in the mean- 
time — Ah! what room is this?^^ 

Margery had led the way into the drawing-room. 

A charming room,^^ declares the new-comer, briskly, 
with a swift but comprehensive glance round her. “ But 
what ghastly furniture! We must turn it all out of doors, 
or else relegate it to the garrets, and get something light — 
aesthetic — satisfying — eh?^^ with an airy wave of her hand. 
Indeed, all her ways seem to be specially airy. 

That-’s the prelude to turning us out of doors,^^ whis- 
pers Meg, gloomily, into Angelical’s ear. “ Well! nothing 
like knowing the worst at once!'’-’ 

“ What-’s outside?” asks Mrs. Daryl, pushing wide a 
window-curtain, and gazing into the still darkness of the 
spring night. 

“ The garden.” 

Ah! I wish I could see that!” cries she, eagerly. She 
seems thoroimhly untiring and full of vivacity. Is it too 
dark, Billy?” 

Much too dark and too chilly, besides,” returns he. 

How careful he is of her!” says Peter, in a moody 
aside. Seems to me she’s as strong as a — ” 

He is evidently on the point of saying “ a horse,” but 
some innate breeding forbids him. 

So she is,” whispers Margery back, who, perhaps, 
understands him. And, indeed, there is something sug- 
gestive of strong and perfect health in Mrs. Daryl’s small, 
elastic frame, and fair face and eager eyes. 

It is rather late for the children to be up,” says Mar- 
gery, addressing her new sister. I think I will take 
them away now, and give them their tea. Billy can show 
you everything,” with a faint smile. 

‘‘ Of course. If they want to go,” says Mrs. Billy, 
cheerfully. ‘‘ But perhaps they’d like a holiday from their 
beds in honor of me. Would you, mites?” 

But the mites are too impressed by the solemnity of the 


24 


LADY BKANKSJiERE. 


occasion to do aught but hang their h^ads and behave 
abominably. 

Just like ill-bred little brats/^ declares Margery, after- 
ward, with an access of wrath that descends upon the luck- 
less twins. 

Ah! well, no doubt they are tired,^^ says Mrs. Billy, 
genially, and so Margery carries off the disgraced babies to 
their tea in the school-room, where they are speedily joined 
by Angelica, Dick, and Peter. 

What idiot said brides were shy?^-^ demands Dick pres^ 
ently. ‘‘ Of all the effrontery, the coolness, the — 

She is just what I said she would be.^^ 

She isnH in the least what I thought she would be,'" 
says Margery, “ she — she's worse. Did you hear her re- 
mark about the hall?" 

And about the furniture?" 

“ I suppose she'll give us a week's grace," says Peter, 
thoughtfully. “ And then — where are we to go?" 

Ah! you are here, then!" cries a gay voice. The door 
is pushed open, and Mrs. Daryl enters as though certain of 
a welcome. ‘‘ They told me I should find you in this 
room," continues she, entering as composedl}^ as though 
she had been an inmate of the house all her life. 

This is a very uncomfortable place for you," declares 
Margery, rising pale and unsmiling from behind the tea- 
pot. “ Let me take you to the library. I have ordered 
tea to be served there for you and Billy." 

“ That's the tea down there, isn't it," nodding her head 
at the elderly tea-pot so well known to the twins. 

‘‘Yes — but in the library — " 

“ I know. Pve been there. And very cozy it looked, 
but not so cozy as this. I think old school-rooms the best 
bits of a house, don't you? And I should hke some of 
your tea, and so would Billy." 

“ She's evidently determined we sha'n't have even this 
poor room to ourselves," mutters Dick, indignantly. “ All 
or none is her motto. Anything so indecent — All this 
pretense at honhommie is a mere dodge to prove that she 
is mistress of everything. That all the rooms belong to 
her." 

“ Well, so they do — so they do!" returns Angelica, with 
a fine justice. Then her feelings grow too much for her. 


LADY BRAKKSMEEE. 


25 


But of all the mean actions — she says, tears rising to 
her dove-like eyes. 

There were hot cakes in the library/^ says Mrs. Daryl, 
who has seated herself at the table, and is plainly waiting 
for her tea. “ CouldnH we have them in here? I^m cer- 
tain the children would like them. Eh?^^ She pulls May 
toward her. Fat little May is not proof against this i^rom- 
isi ng offer. 

“I should," she says, shyly. She is staring at Mrs. 
Billy with her finger in her mouth, so does not see the 
concentrated glances of wrath showered upon her by the 
entire family. 

‘‘ Good child laughs Mrs. Daryl. 

At this moment Billy crosses the threshold. 

“ Billy, this little sister wants the hot cakes in the li- 
brary, ^^^says his wife, looking up at him. And after half 
an hour* or so Blanche and May are at last dismissed for 
the night with as many scones on their conscience as size 
will permit. 

The new-comers follow them very shortly — Mrs. Daryl 
having at last confessed to a slight sense of fatigue. She 
bids them all good-night in an airy cheery fashion, and 
leaves the room, in spite of the tired sensation to which she 
has acknowledged, in a breezy energetic fashion, suggestive 
of a mind that governs the slight body and is not easily to 
be subdued. 

As she goes the storm bursts. 

“ Well!'^ says Peter, when the last sound of their foot- 
steps had ceased upon the air, well! I neverl^^ He might 
have said more. He could never have said anything that 
conveys so expressively to his listeners the real state of his 
feelings. 

It isnT well. It is ill,^^ retorts Margery. It — it is 

disgraceful. She is determined to sit upon us. 

“ Shefil have something to do, then, that^s one com- 
fort, exclaims Angelica, hysterically “ And she canT 
do it all at once either, there ^s such a lot of us. 

“ DonT be a fool,^^ says Peter, who is in no humor for 
Jokes. 

“ Peter. donT be rude to Angelica,^^ interposes Margery, 
JM ;i;ji;;intty. whose nerves are by this so highly strung that 
b i; if -Is it a nec^:*ssity to quarrel with somebody. 


26 


LADY BRANK&MERE. 


Who's rude?" demands Peter. I only advised her 
gently not to jest on solemn subjects." 

Very gently! You told her not to be a fool." 

‘‘Well! Would you have me tell her to be a fool? 
You're all fools together, it strikes me. There isn't a 
grain of sense in any girl born." 

“ I say, look here! Have it out to-morrow, you two," 
cries Dick, “ but let us discuss tlie new madam now, as she 
no doubt is discussing us at this moment." 

“ That is, most unfavorably." 

“ She is no doubt abusing us like a pickpocket," mut- 
ters Peter, dejectedly. 

“ She is arranging with Billy for our immediate dis- 
missal, with a character, having paid all wages due." 

“ Perhaps, after all, we weren't very nice to her," says 
Angelica, doubtfully. 

‘^What's the good of being nice? In books they always 
do the correct thing at first, and get kicked out afterward 
for their pains. I've read a lot about people-in-law. We 
have done the incorrect thing, and we shall be kicked out, 
too, but we shall carry our self-respect with us." 

“ That's about all," puts in Dick, grimly. 

“ She is — didn't any one think her eyes lovely?" haz- 
ards Angelica. “ And her hands very small? Small as 
Muriel's." 

“ No, no," declares Margery, shortly. “ Come, let us 
go to bed and forget our misfortunes for a time, if we can. " 

sic 

Meantime another scene is taking place in the room over 
their heads. 

“ After all, Billy," says Mrs. Daryl, with a jolly little 
laugh as she closes the bedroom door firmly behind her, 
“ you were wrong. They didn’t fall in love with me at 
first sight. You are a false prophet. " 

“They — they were a little queer, eh?" returns Billy, 
thoughtfully. “ I noticed it. But you mustn't mind 
that, you know. It'll wear off, and — when they come to 
know you and understand you, there won't be a difficulty 
anywhere." 

“ It is natural, I suppose," muses Mrs. Daryl, gravely. 

“ They must look upon me as a female Jacob. A sup- 
planter, a usurper." 

“ They mustn't be allowed to harbor that thougin/- 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 27 

says her husband, turning quickly toward her; you are 
mistress here. The house is yours. 

Some sudden remembrance checks him here, and drives 
the color to his cheek. ‘‘ A barren possession,^'' he says, 
laying his kindly, brown hand on hers. I wish there w'as 
something in it worth your acceptance.^’ 

“ It seems to me there is a good deal in it.” A second 
little laugh breaks from her. 

Daryl looks at her anxiously. 

“ Too much, you think, perhaps?” he says, a quick 
shade falling into his eyes. 

For just the moment it takes her to read his thoughts 
she does not answer him; then: 

“ So that is what you are thinking?” she decides at last. 

Have I deserved it, Billy? I tell you, you are wrong — 
all wrong. The very spirit they displayed warmed my 
heart to them as no silly untried tenderness would have 
done. Had they thrown themselves into my arms, and 
affected a sudden love for me, I should have been trouble- 
some, perhaps,” with a little grimace; “ but now! Why 
they seem to be real grit all through, and ITl stand to them 
for it, and make them all like me, before I’m done with 
them. ’ ’ 

“ That’s my dear girl,” says Mr. Daryl. 

‘‘How they withdrew from me! Did you notice that 
boy with the big eyes? How distrustfully he let them rest 
on me? I shall take him for a ride to-morrow, and bring 
him home my slave.” 

“ They will be all your slaves in a month or so.” 

“ A month!” Mrs. Billy gazes at him earnestly as one 
might who is filled with surprise. “ How you underrate 
my abilities,” she says at last, gayly. “ Be warned in 
time. Before to-morrow night I shall be not 'only tolerat- 
ed, but warmly accepted by every member of this house- 
hold!” 


CHAPTER III. 

“ The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame than shedding tears of gore.” 

She was as good as her word. By the next evening they 
- v’e all learned to smile upon her, by the end of the third 
w< ck nave all learned to positively court her society, 


28 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


which is fresh to the last degree. Yet still they are a little 
awkward with her, and a little uncertain as to her ulterior 
designs for their welfare. 

As for Mrs. Billy, she is very well pleased with herself so 
far, and with her growing relations with them, and having 
no special designs in view, does not trouble herself to invent 
any. 

One day, toward the end of this first eventful three weeks, 
she walks into the school-room rather aimlessly, to find 
Margery there and the children. 

‘‘You here, Margery? Why, what are you doing ?^^ asks 
she. She is dressed in a pretty white gown of some soft 
warm material, the days being still a little chilly, and is 
looking cool and fresh and radiant. Margery, on the con- 
trary, has a rather crushed appearance, and is distinctly 
warm and openly miserable. 

“ Teaching the children,'’^ she answers, shortly. 

“ Ah!^^ says Mrs. Daryl, surveying the hot cheeks of 
the three with evident surprise. Blanche, it appears to her, 
is full of tears; May just bereft of them; Margery herself 
seems on the very brink of them. 

“ What on earth are you doing it for?'’^ asks Mrs. Daryl, 
slowly. 

“ Because, however poor they may be, they must not 
grow up altogether savages,'’^ returns Margery, with some 
sharpness. Her irritation has not arisen out of the pres- 
ence of her sister-in-law, but is rather due to an extreme 
exhaustion born of a long and fruitless argument with the 
twins, who have obstinately declined to take to heart the 
fact that twelve and nine make twenty-one. Perhaps Mrs. 
Daryl grasps the truth of the situation, because the amiabil- 
ity of her demeanor is undiminished as she sinks into a 
chair by the table and settles herself, Parisian robe and 
all, to business. 

“ Here! Give one of them to me,’’^ she says, briskly. 

“ To teach asks Meg, aghast. 

“ To try and knock something into her brain. IPs the 
same thing, eh? But to judge by you I should say it was 
no mean task. Give me Blanche. I expect she knows 
considerably more than I do, but with the ' .el n T i book 
IT go in and win.^^ 

“ Oh, no! Indeed you mustikt. You ..u er 'i uu idea 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 29 

wliat a worry it is. Billy won^t like you to do it/^ says 
Mar^ry, anxiously. 

Billy always likes just what I like.^^ 

‘‘ You will -hate it.'’^ 

“ If I do, ril stop/^ says Mrs. Billy, imperturbably. 
And Margery, conquered, passes her over Blanche, and 
once more returns to the disturbed argument with May. 

Five, ten, twenty minutes go by, with only a dismal sob 
or two, and a dull monotone, or perhaps a dismal blowing 
of the nose to break their deep serenity. Then suddenly, 
all at once, as it were, an awful disturbance takes place. 
Mrs. Billy has, without a moments warning, flung her 
book into the fire-place, and has risen impetuously to her 
feet. Her fine eyes are flashing, her cheeks crimson. 

“ She ought to be killed — that child she cries, pointing 
to the terrified May. “ She ought to be exterminated be- 
fore the world is made aware of her. She has no more 
brain than a — a fly.'’^ 

‘‘ May!^-’ exclaims Margeiy, glancing reproaclifully at 
the trembling culprit. Then some inward force compels 
her to defend the little sister who is staring at her implor- 
ingly with quivering lips. “ Usually she is a very good 
child,^-’ she says, holding out her hand to May. 

‘‘Good! Good!"" cries Mrs. Daryl, indignantly. “Then 
tell me, will you, why it is she will persist in bounding 
Europe on the north by the Mediterranean Sea? I warn 
you she is dangerous. She would turn the world upside 
down!"" 

Then in a moment the anger vanishes, and she lifts her 
hands to her head, and breaks into a fit of the gayest, the 
most uncontrollable laughter. 

“ I wonder when I was in a passion before,"" she says. 

How it relieves one. The worst of it is it doesn't last 
long enough with me; I don"t get the good out of it. It 
evaporates before I"m done with it. Say, children, 
wouldn"t you like a run? It"s a most blessed afternoon. 
It"s a positive sin to be in-doors, I think. And as for 
Europe, I don"t quite see that I should cry over it, even if 
the Mediterranean did sit on its head. "" 

“ I suppose they ought to get through the lessons they 
have prepared,"" begins Margery, doubtfully. 

“ So they have; every one of them, because they haven" t 
prepared any. And from this hour out I fancy I know 


30 


LADY BEAJSTKSMEEE. 


what we^ll do. Our tempers wouldnH last through mm ' 
of this sort of thing — rapping the lesson-books— “ so 
we^ll just pay some poor soul to lose her temper for us. 

You mean — 

I mean a governess. 

You must not think of that/^ cries Margery, coloring 
hotly. ‘MVe must not put you to that expense. My time 
is my own; I have literally nothing to do."*^ 

Quite as it should be with a pretty girl/^ interrupts 
Mrs. Daryl, quickly. ‘‘ Ah! experience has taught me 
that.^^ 

With so much time on my hands,'’-’ persists Margery. 

I feel I can do nothing better than teach the children 
and — 

Learn to curse fate,^^ interposes Mrs. Daryl, with her 
merry laugh. “ Not a bit of it! Not while Dm here! A 
governess it shall be, and the children, believe me, will 
learn as much from her in one month as they do from you 
in six. We'’!! get an old maid, and make her very com- 
fortable, poor thing !^’ 

‘‘ But— 

Not a word. Do you think I could sit still, or go out 
riding, and know you were ruining your constitution Avith 
such scenes as I have just gone through? Tut! What do 
you take me for? Come,^^ changing her tone again as if 
the subject is over and done with forever, I want you to 
show me the rooms in the Avest Aving. They are all out of 
order, Billy says; but that^s Avhat I like, it gives one scope 
for one’s imagination. It permits one to give the reins to 
one’s own taste in the matter of paint and gimcracks. 
Come!” 

She slips her arm through Margery’s, and the girl goes 
with her a step or tAvo. There is indeed no gainsajdng 
her. Then all at once Margery stops as if to argue the 
point anew, and Mrs. Daryl, glancing at her, sees that her 
eyes are full of unshed tears. 

“ Too much geography, grammar, and sums, and far too 
much gratitude,” thinks she sAviftly. 

“ Pondering on the children still?” she says smiling. 
Then she glances back over her shoulder at the tAvins, Avho 
Avere sitting disconsolately in their seats, chilled by the con- 
sciousness of having signally disgraced themselves in the 
late encounter. 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


31 


‘‘ Get on your feet, you two/^ she commands gayly, 
‘‘ and pick me a bunch of daifodils for my room. And 1^11 
tell you what/^ beckoning them closer to her, ‘‘ from this 
day you shall have a whole month of pure and lovely idle- 
ness whilst I look north and south and east and west for 
the dragon I am preparing for you. 

She laughs so pleasantly at this threat that the twins 
catch the- infection of her mirth, and laugh too, and are 
indeed so delighted with her and the promised emancipa- 
tion from the hated studies that their equanimity is quite 
restored. Can she, does she mean it? A month, mind 
you. A whole long splendid month of delicious idleness, 
with nothing on earth to do but to hunt at will the wily 
butterfly! Oh! what an angel in disguise their enemy has 
become. 

They rise from their seats. Simultaneously, involun- 
tarily, they clasp hands. They draw near. 

“ Is it true?^^ cry they in one breath. 

‘‘ As true as that you are both the very prettiest pair of 
dunces 

Mrs. Billy, having given voice to this medicated assur- 
ance, draws back, and, providentially in time, supports 
herself against the ancient book-case that for generations 
has shown itself proof against the severest onslaughts. 
This enables her to receive the shock of two small bodies 
flung convulsively and without warning upon her breast, 
with at least a show of valor. 

‘‘ Oh!^^ gasps May, hysterically, clinging to her, wasiiT 
it a good thing for us that you married Billy ?^^ 

Flight, however ignominious, means life!^^ gasps Mrs. 
Billy, “ so here goes 

She tears herself away from the grateful twins, seizes 
Margery ^s wrist, and with her escapes into the cooler hall 
outside. 

‘‘Now come and show me the uninhabited parts, the 
rooms where the ghosts walk,'’^ she says gayly, sininging 
up the beautiful old staircase two steps at a time. 

“Only there isn^t anything so decent as a sqjirit,^^ re- 
turns Margery, following her swiftly. “ A cell, isn't it? 
It is just the sort of rambling old tenement that should 
possess a gentleman with his head tucked well beneath his 
arm. But, alas! he has never turned up. Mean of him, 

I call it." 


32 


LADY LRANKSMERE. 


In truth, it is a very picturesque old mansion, though 
sadly out of repair, with a queer, dusky hall of huge dimen- 
sioixs. A hall full of ancient cupboards and a big fire- 
place where the traditionary ox might have been roasted 
whole — almost. The mantel-piece rises to the very ceil- 
ing, which is vaulted, and both are so black with age that 
it is impossible at a first glance to pick out and piece 
together properly the carvings on the former. 

Doors lead off this hall to right and left, and two long 
corridors shrouded by moth-eaten curtains are dimly sug- 
gested. Mrs. Billy is openly pleased with everything. 
Standing on the top of the quaint staircase, as broad as it is 
shallow in the steps, she looks down into the gloom beneath 
her, and seems enraptured. 

‘‘It only wants a word here, a touch there, she mur- 
murs, casting a glance full of artistic appreciation around. 
“ A prince might be proud of such a hall as that.'’^ 

“ It wants considerably more than a touch, says 
Margery, who after all is accustomed to the beauty of it, 
and is not carried away by its charms. To her the chairs, 
the antlers, the tables are all only so much lumber; and, 
indeed, the entire furniture throughout the house is old, 
not to say crumbly. 

“ Well, it shall have it,^^ answers Mrs. Daryl. “It is 
worthy of all care and' consideration. She turns, and 
they continue their way, peering into this room, peeping 
into that, to find them all dilapidated and shorn of decora- 
tions of all sorts, the finances of the two last generations 
having been found very insufiicient when applied to the 
keeping up of so large a house. The Daryls for the past 
two centuries had apparently taken for their motto, “ Love 
and the world well lost,'' their beautiful wives bringing 
nothing but their fair-faces and a stainless ancestry to the 
empty coffers of their husbands. It had not been Billy's 
fault that he had been false to the creed of his ancestors. 
He had loved, and had wooed and won his sweetheart when 
she was without a penny in the world; and does not, be 
cause he could not, love her a whit the more to-day in that 
she is an heiress to a rather fabulous extent. 

“ Take care," cries Margery, suddenly, “ a step leads 
down into this room. It takes one unawares, as a rule. 
But I want you to see this room of all others. The view 
from it is so’ perfect, and the windows so quaint." 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


33 


‘‘ Oh!’^ cries Mrs. Billy as she steps into it, with an ad- 
miration in her tone that leaves nothing to be desired. 
“ What a jolly little room.^-" She looks round her. 
“ Quite a m^iaeval little affair. It is a trifle too much for 
me 1 confess, but you ^ ^ — ^glancing at Margery kindly — 
“ you like it, eh?^^ 

“ Like it? It is an ideal tiling — a rugged poem!^^ cries 
Margery. Then she checks herself, and looks in a puzzled 
way at her sister-in-law. ‘‘ You who have such a fine aji- 
preciation of the really good, why do you disparage itr ^ 
she asks, slowly. “ I thought of it all last night as a thing 
just suited for you, as a retirement — a retreat — a pet place 
to receive your favorites. It was a matter of covetousness 
to myself many a time, but you see it would be thrown 
away without its suitable adornments. Everything should 
be of its own time.^^ 

“ Except its mistress,^^ interrupts Mrs. Daryl, with a 
little laugh. “ That’s the flaw in the present aesthetic run 
of thoughts. AYe can’t produce a real chatelaine. AVe 
can’t bring back a dame, severely Saxon, artistically pure, 
from the nauseous grave. And all the high art gowns in 
the world don’t seem to me to do it. One can see the nine- 
teenth century training all through the puffs and wigs, and 
pensive poses.” 

“ You are a skeptic,” says Margery, laughing 
A Philistine, you mean. In some ways, yes. Exag- 
geration, don’t you see, is odious to me. ” Here she laughs 
gayly in unison with her companion. Tell you what, 
Meg,” she says, “ this room shall be yours. I’ll have it 
done up for you, and you shall choose every stick for your- 
self. You are Miss Daryl, you see, and proper respect 
must be shown you. The school-room will do for the ^il- 
dren well enough. It is comfortable, and there is some- 
thing quaint about the tables and chairs, and the very ink- 
stains of it. But the boys, I think, should have a den of 
their own. Of their very own, eh? A sort of a snuggery 
where they might knock around at will, and no one have 
the right to scold them for untidyness, eh?” 

There is something remarkably cheery in the way she has 
of saying that fremient ‘‘eh?” Some thought growing 
within the mind of Margery renders her dumb. 

“ AVell? AAliy don’t you speak, eh? And why do you 
look at me like that, with such solemn eyes?” 

2 


34 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


I was just thinking/^ the words coming from her 
slowly, that there are few women who could have come 
as mistress to a strange house and have adopted an uncon- 
scionable number of useless people in the sweet spirit that 
you have done! Why, what are we to you?^^ cries the girl, 
coming more into the sunlight and spreadmg out her hands 
as if in protest. An incumbrance, a worry, beings of no 
moment at all in the life that is just beginning for you. 
Yet it seems as though you had made up your mind to us 
—to—"" 

‘‘Look here! If you only knew!"" interposes Mrs. Billy. 

She seats herself with very rash promptness upon a moth- 
devoured seat in one of the windows, and pulls the girl 
down beside her. There is a secret nobility about this seat 
in that though it totters to its fall, it makes one last effort 
and manages to keep erect for still another half hour. 
How could it upset so charming a cargo? 

“ Don"t you get it into your silly old noddle,"" says Mrs. 
Billy, who takes no thought for her language, “ that I"m 
making sacrifices for my husband" s people, or anything of 
that sort. It would be a downright fraud if you brought 
your mind to that. I"m delighted, glad, thankful to have 
you all here. Taken that in, eh.-^ Delighted — see? I 
have been so long left alone, with only two old frowzy peo- 
ple to stare at day after day — ^fossils who were always on 
the very brink of the grave, but who wouldn"t go into it — 
that the sound of the laughter that comes from all you 
•girls and boys is, I consider, grand; the very sweetest 
music. Taken all that m? Why, that"s right. "" 

“ But — to be never alone with Billy — "" 

“ There isn"t a ‘ but " in the whole of it. I defy you to 
find one, my good child,"" interrupts this energetic young 
woman, promptly. “ If you think I"m the sort to be mis- 
erable unless my husband is in my sight all day or I in his 
you"ve made a mistake, that"s all. I"m not of the sickly 
sentimental order, by any means. Yes, "" glancing swiftly 
at Margery, “ you know that I love Billy with all my heart 
and soul, eh?"" 

“ Yes,"" gravely. “I know it."" 

“ I should, you know. He rescued me from a very 
slough of despond. He was the first bright thing I had 
come in contact with. I can tell you I rubbed myself 
against him vigorously, and sparks was the result! He was 


LADY BHAKKSMERE. 


35 


charming to me, he treated me as though I were really a 
young girl, and not a mere beast of burden — a sort of 
superior upper servant — a being a degree better than Mar- 
tha in that I did not displace my h^s, and could sit in a 
drawing-room without looking awkward. He came. He 
loved me; poor, dependent, as I was. And he is one of 
you! Ho I not owe you love for his love?^^ 

‘‘ Your life was miserable asks Margery, bending 
eagerly toward her. 

Monotony is the worst of all miseries to some natures. 
They were not absolutely unkind, but I felt ‘ cribbM, 
cabinM ^ every moment of my day. Oh! the horrible read- 
ings aloud to that, old man until my throat was sore! the 
eternal windings of that old woman ^s skeins! I wonder I 
never gave way to my inner promptings — that I abstained 
from murder or suicide; I was almost at the end of my 
patience, I can tell you, when Billy came upon the scene. 
Well, you know all that. And he loved me at once, some- 
how; all in a moment as it were — just as I loved him.^^ 

“ That is the true way. 

“.Yes — isn.T it? What a nice girl you are, Margery! 
And I hadnT . a single half-penny then, so he must have 
meant all he said, eh? I like to dwell on that; it makes 
me feel right down proud, someho\y; but you mustiiT 
mind me. Then the old general died, and somebody fo.und 
out I was his nearest of skin — kin — what is it? And all 
at once I became not only an heiress, but an enormous 
one.'’^ 

‘‘ Hot so very enormous," says Meg, smiling and point- 
ing menacingly to the little round^ thing talking so 
fluently. 

“Eh? oh, no! Of course not in that way. But it was 
all like a fairy tale, wasnT it, now? The night it was 
Anally settled and my claim to the money established be- 
yond a doubt, and I laughed in my bed I can tell you when 
1 thought of how comfortable I could make my Billy. 

“ Then?^^ 

“ Then we got married. I q^uitted forever the shade. I 
rushed headlong into the sunshine. Billy and I dawdled 
about a good deal in Paris and Brussels, but the first 
glimpse of home I had ever had in all my life was on the 
night I arrived here.^^ Involuntarily, at this, Margery 
winces, but evidently there is no arriere pensee in Mrs. 


36 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


Billy’s conversation. You were a continuation of the 
sunshine that had come to me with Billy. This old house, 
all of you, everything seems blended into one sweet satis- 
factory whole. I couldn’t hear to be in an empty house. 
To confess a truth to you,” says Mrs. Daryl, bendiiig for- 
ward, “ I love noise! Taken all that to heart?” 

‘‘ Yes, all,” replies Margery, earnestly. 

Then it only remains for you to take me there, too!” 
says Mrs. Billy, smiling. Margery, driven to a sudden im- 
pulse, turns to her and flings her arms round her. 


CHAPTER IV:^ ' 

“ Oh! thou hast set my busy brain at work, 

And now she musters up a train of tilings, 

Which, to preserve my peace, I’d cast aside 
And sink in deep oblivion.” 

There is a silence that lasts for quite a minute, as Mar- 
gery embraces Mrs. Billy while they sit at the window of 
the room the latter so much admires; then, I love you,” 
says Margery, simply, a little tremor in her voice. 

That’s all right. Quite right. That is just as it 
should be,” sweetly. ‘‘And now we are real sisters, 
without any law" about it.” 

And we — we thought we should have to leave the 
manor,” begins Margery, a little guilty, full confession on 
the tip of her tongue, but Mrs. Billy will not listen. 

“ Rubbish,” she cried, gayly; “ as if this dear old shed 
isn’t big enough to hold a garrison! Why, if we do come 
to loggerheads or a pitch battle there’s plenty of room 
iiere in which to fight it out; that’s one comfort. Why so 
serious, Meg?” 

“ I was tliinking May’s thoughts. How well it is for us 
that you married Billy!” Her eyes are full of tears. 

“ And doubly well for me. By the bye, there is one of 
you I seem to hear very little about — Lady Branksmere, 
Muriel. ” Margery getting up from the crazy old seat goes 
somewhat abruptly to the window. 

“ We don’t as a rule talk much of each other,” she says, 
after a slight pause. 

“ AVell, do you know, I think you do, a considerable lot 
at times,” returns Mrs. Billy, with a quaint candor. “ But 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


37 


of her — never! I knew her marriage was a surprise to you 
all, because Billy was so taken aback by it. We heard of 
it when on our tour. But why? That is what I want to 
know. Tell me about it. 

About it?^^ Mrs. Daryl colors faintly, hesitates and 
looks confused. “ About what?^^ 

“ Look here,^^ says Mrs. Billy, good-naturedly, if it is 
anything that requires you to think before answering, of 
what will sound well, donT mind it at all. I would far 
rather you didnT answer me. 

“ Yet, I should like to speak to you of her. It would 
be a relief — a comfort, exclaims Margery, eagerly, 
“ though, indeed, I hardly know what it is I want to say. 
You are one of us now — her sister as much as mine — why 
then should I be silent about her? My manner, •’Mmpa- 
tiently, “ is absurd. One would think by it there was some 
mystery in the background, but in reality there is noth- 
ing."" 

Things often look like that. "" 

“ It was all terribly sudden, terribly unexpected. The 
marriage with Branksmere, I mean. She had always 
avoided him, as I thought— had — ^had, in fact "" — with a 
little rush — “ given us the idea that she rather disliked 
him than otherwise, so that when one morning she came 
into the school-room and said in her pretty, slow, indiffer- 
ent way that she was going to marry him in a month, we 
were all so thmiderstruck that I don"t believe one of us 
opened our lips*"" 

“ A wise precaution. "" 

“ I"m not so sure of that. I doubt our silence offended 
her. ‘ Your congratulations are warm, " she said, with that 
queer little laugh of hers you will come to understand in 
time. It was cruel of us, but we were all so taken aback. "" 

“It was startling, of course. Tell me,"" stooping to- 
ward Margery, and speaking very clearly, “ was the other 
fellow desirable?"" 

“ The — ^the other f — "" 

“ Why, naturally, my dear child. It would be alto- 
gether out of the possibilities not to think of him. When 
a woman gets engaged and married, all in one second, as 
it were, to a man whom she appeared, to dislike very cor- 
dially, the mind as a rule is alive to the knowledge that 
there is another man hidden away. somewhere."" 


38 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


. ‘‘ I know SO little, I imagine so much/^ says Margery, 
with quick distress, ‘‘ that I am half afraid to speak. But 
I alw^s thought, until she declai*ed her engagement to 
Lord Branksmere, that she liked some one — a great con- 
trast to Branksmere — who had been staying down here with 
some friends of ours for several months in the autumn. 
Whether he and she quarreled, or whether she threw him 
over, or whether he tired, I know nothing. 

“ Pity I wasn^t here just then. I^d have seen through 
it all in the twinkling of an eye,^^ declared Mrs. Billy, 
naively. 

“ Muriel is. difficult, you must understand. One can not 
read her, quite. Yet I did fancy she was in love with Cap- 
tain Staines. 

“Staines, Staines 

“ That was his name. He was staying with the Blounts, 
who live two or three miles from this. Know him?^^ 

“ It is quite a usual name, no doubt, says Mrs. Daryl, 
in a tone that might almost suggest the idea that she has 
recovered herself. “ Yet it gave to me a train of thought. 
Know him? Well — one canT be sure. Short, little man. 
Eh?^^ 

“ Oh, no. Tall, very tall.'^ 

“ Stout?^^ 

“ Meager, if anything. A handsorrie figure, I suppose,” 
doubtfully, “ but too much of the hair-pin order to suit 
me. But, at all events, I know he could lay claim to be 
called distinguished-looking. ” 

“ Most dark men look distinguished.^^ 

“ He isnH dark. Fair if anything. 

“ Fair, and tall, and slender. Ah! he canT be the man 
I mean,” said Mrs. Billy, slowly. Then, “ When do you 
expect Lady Branksmere home?” 

To the castle, you mean? I donT know. She has 
never, during all her wedding-trip, written so much as a 
post-card to one of us. Odd, isiiT it?” 

“ Suggestive, at least.” 

“ Of what? Happiness?” 

“ Let us hope so. But what a long time to maintain a 
settled silence.” 

“ Too long. She is coming home, we hear— tlirough the 
Branksmere steward.” 

“ When?” 


LADY BKAKK8MERE. 


39 


** Any day — any hour, in fact. They have received word 
to have the castle in order to receive the new Lady Branks- 
mere at a moments notice."’^ 

I see,^^ says Mrs. Daryl, thoughtfully. She had 
walked to the window a few minutes ago, and is now star- 
ing out into the shrubberies that guard the garden paths. 
Presently her gaze grows concentrated upon one spot. 

Margery, come here!’^ she says, in a low tone. “ With- 
in the last minute or two I have become aware that there 
is a strange man in the garden ! He is gazing about him 
in a most suspicious manner. What can he want? See! 
there he is. Ah! now you Ve lost him again. He appears 
to me to keep most artfully behind the bushes. Can he be 
a burglar taking the bearings of the house with intent to 
rob and murder us all in our beds?^^ 

Margery, coming nearer, peers excitedly over her shoul- 
der at the suspicious-looking person in’ question. As she 
does so her face grows hot. The bushes may hide his indi- 
viduality from a stranger, but to her that gray coat, those 
broad shoulders, are unmistakable; she gives way to a 
smothered ejaculation. 

“You know him? It is true, then. He is a person of 
bad character in the neighborhood,^^ exclaims Mrs. Daryl, 
looking round at her. 

“ Oh! as to that, no! I doiiH think it is a burglar,^' 
says Margery, temporizing disgracefully. “ It^s — it^s no- 
body, in fact. I fancy, as well as I can see, that it is a 
Mr. Bellew!'’^ 

“ Ah!^^ Mrs. Billy grows even more thoughtful. “ Mr, 
Bellow seems rather struck with the house! An architect, 
perhaps?^'’ 

“Ho. Only a neighbor. A friend of the boys, in fact. 
He comes here to see them very often. 

“ That^s kind of him," says Mrs. Billy. She laughs a 
little. “ One would think it was the house he came to 
see,'’^ she goes on, meditatively; “ at least, that portion of 
it where the school-room windows begin. By the bye, Meg, 
it is there you sit, a rule, eh? I^d keep my eye on that 
young man, if I were you. He is up to something; I hope 
it isnT theft. " 

“ I hope not," returns Miss Daryl, with an attempt at 
indifference.. Then she gives way as she catches the other’s 
eye, and breaks into petulant laughter. “ He is a thorougli 


40 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


nuisance/'' slie says, in a vexed tone. ‘‘ He is never off the 
premises.''^ 

The boys are 50 attractive/^ adds Mrs. Billy. “At 
that rate, I expect the sooner I become acquainted with 
him the better. Take me down, Meg, and bring me face 
to face with him. As you evidently canT bear him, I sup- 
l^ose I had better begin well and rout him with great 
slaughter at this our first meeting. Shall I exterminate 
him with a blow, or — 

“ Do anything you like to him,^^ says Meg, who is evi- 
dently full of rage when she thinks of the invader. 

When they get to the small armory door, however, that 
leads directly into the garden, she comes to a sudden halt. 

“ I think if you will walk rather slowly, I will just run 
on and tell him you are coming, she says rather jerkily, 
looking askance at her companion as if a little bit ashamed 
of her suggestion, and then without waiting for an answer, 
speeds away from her, swift as an 'arrow from the bow. 

“ Just warn him that I^m coming — and so is his last 
hour,^^ calls out Mrs. Billy after her, convulsed with 
laughter. But Miss Daryl refuses to hear. She hurries on 
through the old-fashioned garden, full of its quaint flower- 
beds, and odd yew hedges cut in fantastic shapes — past a 
moss-grown sun-dial, and the strutting peacocks and their 
discordant scream, until she runs almost into Mr, Bellew^s 
willing arms. 

“ Ah I here you are at last,^^ cries the young man in 
an accent of undisturbed delight as she comes up to him 
breathless. “ I thought you^d never come! Such a cent- 
ury as it has seemed. Three weeks in town and not a line 
from you. You might have written one, I think! I got 
back an hour ago, and hurried over here to — 

“ Make an ass of yourself!” interrupts Miss Daryl, 
wrathfully, who unconsciously adopted a good many of her 
brother's pretty phrases. “And hereV^ looking round 
.her, “ is this the only place you could think of? Is there 
no drawing-room in the house that you must needs be 
found prowling about the shrubberies? Anything more 
outrageous than your behavior could hardly.be imagined!” 

“ Why, what on earth have I been doing now?^^ de- 
mands Mr. Bellew, in a bewildered tone. 

“ Mrs. Daryl has been gazing at you through an upper 
window for the last ten minutes, and very naturally came to 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


41 


the conclusion that you were a person of n^ character what- 
soever. She was nearer the mark than she knew!^^ puts in 
Miss Daryl, viciously. “ I didn^t betray you.^^ 

“ Mrs. Daryl? What! The new woman, anxiously. 

“ New? One would think she was a purchase. What 
an extraordinary way we speak of one^s sister-in-law, ex- 
claims Meg, who is determined to give quarter nowhere. 
“ Yes,^^ she was so annoyed by your prowling that she is 
coming round presently to give you a bit of her mind.^^ 

‘‘ Bless me! I hope not!^'’ says Mr. Belle w, who prob- 
ably had never known fear until this moment. “ I — I 
think 1^11 go,” he says, falteringly. 

“ You canT. She^s coming. Why on earth couldnT 
you have called at the hall-door like any other decent 
Christian?” 

“ Well, so I did,^^ indignantly. “ I did the regulation 
thing right through. Knocked at the ‘ front door;^ asked 
for Mr. Daryl; heard he was out; left my card, and then- 
thought IM come round here to look for you. ” 

“ Well, I wonH have it!” — decisively. I wonH be 

followed about by anything but my own terrier, and I dis- 
tinctly refuse to be made by you the laughing-stock of the 
world. She was dying with laughter. I could see that. I 
tell you she thought first you had designs on the house. I 
had to explain you away. I had ” — angrily — to assure 
her you weren^t a burglar, but only a person called Cur- 
zon Bellew.^^ 

This contemptuously, and as though Curzon Bellew was 
a person distinctly inferior to the burglar. 

‘‘ I won^t come here at all if it displeases you,” says Mr. 
Bellew, in a white heat. ‘‘ Say the word, and I go for- 
ever I'’ There is something tragic about this. 

“ Go, and joy go with you!” returns she, scornfully. 

“ That is a kinder wish than you mean,” says the young 
man, clasping her hands. ‘‘No. I wonH go. Would 1 
take joy from you? And do your words mean that if I 
went joy would of necessity go too?” 

“ Go, too,” repeats Miss Daiyl, but in a very dilferent 
tone, and then, as though impelled to it by the glad youth 
witliin.them, they both burst out laughing. 

Aricr a while M, Tlellew grows grave again. 

‘‘ ’ asks Jie, confidentially, “ what do you think of 

her?”' 


43 


LADY BRAKKSMEEE. 


“ Her? Yoi^ should speak more respectfully of such a 
dragon as she has proved herself, if, indeed, you mean 
Mrs. Daryl. But why ask me for a photograph? She will 
be here in a moment to — 

‘‘ Yes, yes, I know,^'’ hastily “ That is why I want to 
be prepared. What is she like, eh?^^ 

All the rest of the world. She has a nose, two eyes, 
and a mouth — quite ordinary. Disappointing, isnH it?^^ 
Then she isnT — 

“ No, she isnH!"’^ saucily. “ What did you expect? An 
ogress?'^ 

“ Why, that was what you expected, says Mr. Belle w, 
very justly incensed. You said — 

He is stricken dumb by the sight of a pretty little plump 
Iverson who has emerged apparently from the laurel close 

“ You will introduce me, Meg,^^ says the vision, smiling 
friendly wise at the disconcerted young man. ‘‘ Is this the 
ogress? the tyrant? the — 

“ Certainly! This is Mr. Belle w, a very old friend of 
ours,^^ says Margery, in the tone of one who evidently 
deems the Mr. Bellew in question of no account whatso- 
ever. 

“ So glad to meet you, Mr. Bellew, says Mrs. Daryl, 
with the sweetest smile. Margery tells me you are quite 
an old friend with all here, so I hope by and by we, you 
and I, shall be friends too» 

Where is the ogress in all this? Mr. Bellew feels his 
heart go out to this pretty, smiling, gracious little thing 
upon the graveled path. 

“ You are very good,^^ he stammers, feeling still some- 
what insecure, the revulsion of feeling being extreme. 

“ Billy was out then? I am so sorry. One of the serv- 
ants told me on my way here that you wished to see him. 
Never mind. Perhaps — what do you think, Margeiy? 
Perhaps your friend, Mr. Bellew, will dine with us without 
ceremony to-morrow evening?"’^ 

The two words “ your friend does it. From that mo- 
ment Curzon Bellew is hbr slave. Margery murmurs 
something civil, and presently Mrs. Daryl, with another 
honeyed word or two, disappears between the branches. 

‘‘ Well?'' says Meg. 

“ Well?" 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


43 


She isn^t quite the ogress you imagined, eh?^^ 

“ Why, it was you who used to call her that,^^ exclaims 
Curzon, with some righteous wrath. And now you try 
to put it upon me. It is the most unfair thing I ever 
heard of. You have forgotten, you know."’"’ 

Unfair 

“ Yes. You said you were miserable at the thought of 
having to live with an ill-tempered — 

“ That^s right. Put it all upon me, by all means. I^m 
only a woman. Ill-tempered! Why, she is sweet. How 
can you so malign her?^^ 

A voice comes to them through the twilight: 

“ Margery! Margery Daw! Where are you? Come in. 
The dew is falling. 

Miss Daryl makes a step toward the house. 

“ Oh, Meg, to leave me without one kind word after 
three weeks. How can you?^^ cries Belle w, in a subdued 
tone that is full of grief. 

“Well, there, says Meg, extending to him her little 
slender, white hand, with all the haughty graciousness of 
a queen. 

“If I come to dinner to-morrow night, you will be 
glad?^^ 

• “ Glad? It wonH put me out in the least, if you mean 
that,^^ says Miss Daryl, sli2:)ping from him through the 
dewy branches. 

« 4c ^ * 4c ♦ ♦ 

The day has waned; night — a dark, damp, spring night 
— has fallen upon the earth. There is an extreme close- 
ness in the air that speaks of a coming storm. The shadow 
of a starless night is thrown over the world that lies sleep- 
ing uneasily beneath its weight, and from the small rivers 
in the distance comes the sound of rusliing, that goes be- 
fore the swelling of the floods, i^'torm and rain, and pas- 
sionate wind, may be predicted for the coming mom. • 

Dinner long since has come to an end ; it is now close on 
ten o'’ clock. Margery and Mrs. Daryl are sitting together 
in the libraiy, before a blazing fire — rather silent, rather 
depressed in spite of themselves — a little imbued uncon- 
sciously by the electric fluid with which the air seems 
charged. The windows leading on to the balcony are 
thrown wide open. The fire has been lighted as usual, but 


44 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


the night is almost suffocating, so dense and heavy is the 
still, hot atmosphere without. 

One feels uncanny, somehow, as if strange things were 
about, says Mrs. Billy, presently, with a rather nervous 
little laugh. “ I canH bear lightning, can you.^ And 
there is sure to be plenty of it before the morning. What 
a weird night. Look how dark it is without. Ah! what 
is that — 

‘‘ What?^^ cries Margery in turn, springing to her feet. 
There is a sound of light, ghostly footsteps on the balcony 
beyond, and from the sullen mist a tall figure emerges 
clothed from head to heel in somber garments. It comes 
quickly toward them through the open window, the face 
hidden by a black hood, until almost within a yard or two 
of them. Then it comes to an abrupt stand-still and flings 
back the covering from its face. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ Yea, this one's brow, like to a tragic leaf. 

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.” 

Ah! Muriel!” cries Margery, with a swift revulsion of 
feeling from fear to excessive joy. “It is only you after 
all. ” She runs to her and encircles the cloaked figure with 
loving arms. There is a silent embrace between the sisters, 
and then, flinging her long covering somewhat impatiently 
from her. Lady Branksmere stands revealed. 

■ A tall, slight woman, with a statuesque figure exquisitely 
molded. And a bronze head, superbly set upon her 
shoulders! She is gowned in some soft, black, clinging 
draj)eries, against wliich her naked hands and arms show 
with a dazzling clearness. There is a touch of sunlight in 
the rich brown of her hair, but her face is j^allid almost to 
ghastliness, and beneath the great mournful eyes of dee})- 
est gray, purple shadows lie Siat tell of sleepless nights and 
a mind torn and racked by cruel memories. Her chin is 
firmly rounded, and her long, thin fingers are peculiarly 
lithe and supple. 

“ Muriel! To think of you coming back 
this, so suddenly, without a word!'^ 

“ I am not coming back, however. I am ' 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


45 


says Lady Branksmere, with a peculiar smile, that is alto- 
gether without joyousness. 

“ This is Wilhelmina. This is Billy’s wife/’ goes on 
Margery, hastily, who might perhaps be suspected of being 
afraid to stop talking. She draws Muriel toward Mrs. Billy, 
who, up to this, has been too surprised to do anything. ’ ’ 
Ah!” says the new-comer expressively, with a sudden 
smile, which enables one to see that her perfect teeth are 
somewhat squarely formed, and that her mouth is large, 
and her smile, though beautiful, short-lived. 

She goes forward and la3^s her pretty slender hand on 
Mrs. Billy’s arm, and looks at her long and attentively. 

There was no exaggeration, ” she says at last, in a quick 
restless way; ‘‘ one can see how it is. One can understand. 
I am glad Billy is happy. ” 

She falls back from the sister-in-law after saying this, 
and appeals to Margery: 

“ After all, it is only barely just that some of us should 
be happy,” she says, with a little laugh that is too grace- 
ful to be called forced, but that certainly never arose from 
a glad heart. ‘‘ You have a charming face,” she saj^s to 
Mrs. Billy, looking back at her over her shoulder with a 
little nod. 

There is a peculiar fascination in itself in the restless 
fashion of her speech. Mrs. Billy gives in to it. She, to 
whom shyness up to this has been unknown, stands now 
mute and wordless before this strange, lovely, imperious 
girl, who as yet is too newly wedded to have merged her 
youth into womanhood, and who has stolen upon her 
through the darkness, and dazzled her with her beauty. 
She has marked each charm with a curious care. The fig- 
ure that would not have disgraced a Juno, the face so like 
a sorrowful Proserpine! She is like a Venus, too, but in a 
pathetic fashion; the ever-blossoming gayety, the orthodox 
frivolity of the one being in such sad contrast with the 
mournful posing of the other. There is a condensed, a sure 
but subdued, passion abbut Muriel, that puzzles whilst it 
attracts the gentler nature of Mrs. Billy. 

Still Muriel is smiling on her! Then, all at once, as 
though the author of it is wearied, the smile fades, and the 
ijgbt that frrown within Lady Branksmere’s eyes, dies, 
t-: u. 


46 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


Well?^^ she says, sinking wearily into a chair^ “ how 
are you all, eh?^^ 

As well as can be expected/^ returns Margery, gayly, 
who seems overflowing with joy at having her sister with 
her again. “ How good of you to come at once. How 
good, too, of Lord Branksmere to spare you.^^ 

Lady Branksmere stares at her for a moment. 

“Oh! yes; he spared me,^'’ she says, with a peculiar 
laugh that jars upon her hearers, and somehow reduces 
them to silence. 

Lady Branksmere, as though struck by the effect of her 
words, and growing impatient beneath it, springs to her 
feet. 

“ Show me the rest of the house, she says, hurriedly. 

I have thought of it, hit by bit, all the time I have been 
away, but now I want to see it. Come.-’^ 

As she gets to the door, she turns again to Margeiy. 

“ Where are the children? Can I see them?^'’ she asks. 

“ Of course. They have gone to bed, but if you will 
come up — ” 

“Not now. I have plenty of time yet. By and by, 
when I am going — She checks herself, and draws her 
breath quickly. “ Do you know I was going to say home? 
I meant, back to the castle. What a silly mistake! But 
for the moment I quite forgot. She looks roimd her at the 
beautiful old hall, with a very odd smile. 

“ And Billy? And the boys?^^ she asks at last, when 
her uninterrupted reverie has come to an end. 

“ Billy has gone to a county meeting, says Mrs. Daryl, 
very gently, “ and has taken Peter with him. Dick, I am 
afraid, is with the rabbits. 

“ Ah!^’ says Lady Branksmere. But even as she says 
it she seems to have forgotten the twins, Billy, and all, and 
lost herself in contemplation of a more self-contained char- 
acter. As if still musing, she walks mechanically across 
the hall and into the drawing-room. Here she wakens into 
the present life again. The scene she now looks upon is 
not tne one of her dreams; all is changed, and for the bet- 
ter, as she at once allows. 

‘ ‘ What a pretty room you have made of it, she says, 
turning with a faintly suppressed sigh to Mrs. Billy. “ 
different ! That ghastly old furniture ! I am glad yc , - i m ve 
relegated it to the celestial regions, as we used to ci !■ ’ 


LADY BRA^rKSMERE. 


4 ' 


f arrets long ago. Or was it to the infernal ones it went? 

donH believe even cook would be glad because of it. 
What a room it was! And they all clung to it so! I sup- 
pose I am wanting in the finer grades of feeling, because, 
whenever / thought of it, it gave me a headaclie. Well? 
And so Billy is very, very happy? That is one of us out 
of the fire, at all events. She smiles again, an indifferent 
little expression of good-will that lasts just long enough to 
make one aware that it was there, but no longer. 

“ Dearest Muriel! It is so good to see you again, ex- 
claims Margery, caressingly. 

“ Is it?^^ L^y Branksmere takes her sister ^s hand, and 
pats it softly. Then all at once her glance wanders back 
again to Wilhelmina. “ I may as well tell you,^' she says, 

‘ ‘ that I intended to take Margery to live with me at 
Branksmere, but now that I have seen you I know she is 
far better where she is."’"’ She looks intently at Mrs. DaryTs 
bright face and says again, ‘‘ Far better.^' 

‘‘ She is quite happy where she is. Is it not so, Meg?^' 
asks Mrs. Billy, a little anxiously. 

“ Entirely so,^^ returns Margery, hastily. In truth she 
would have been rather afraid to begin life afresh with 
Lord Branksmere, who is almost a stranger to her. Tlien, 
some sudden remorseful thought recurring to her, she slips 
her arm round Muriel. ‘‘ I am without a wish now you are 
home again, she whispers tenderly. 

“ Yes,'’^ says Lady Branksmere. She unwinds the girFs 
arm very gently, and holding her hand looks at Mrs. Daryl. 
“ She will be safe with you,^^ she continues, slowly. “ And 
she can learn to love you now, as, once, she loved me. ” 

Her tone is calm to indifference, yet there is something 
in it that brings tears to Margery ^s eyes. 

‘‘ I can love you both, darling — but you always first; 
you are my sister, she says tenderly, yet with a decisive 
force, for which Wilhelmina in her own honest soul honors 
her. 

“Oh! as for me, I expect that I have done with all that 
sort of thing, returns Lady Branksmere, with a curious 
laugh. She drops languidly into a chair, and looks up at 
Wilhelmina. “The comfort it is to know that you are 
you V* she says. “ It makes home to them all. You get 
on with Billy, eh?^^ 

Mrs. Daryl looks rather puzzled, and then a sense of 


48 


l^ADY BEANKSMEKE. 


amusement breaks through everything. It is a good while 
since she lias given way to mirth of any kind^ and an over- 
powering desire to give way to it now fills her. 

‘‘Oh! yes/^ she answers meekty, her eyes on the carpet. 
She is battling with the wild longing for laughter that it 
will be such a letise to permit. It is all so intensely absurd ! 
The idea of her not getting on with Billy, or he with her! 

“ You like being here?^' 

“ Very much indeed. The country is so altogether 
lovely, and the children so pretty. 

“ Ah! I see,’’^ says Lady Branksmere, who has a little 
strange way of staring at people now and then, as if mak- 
ing up her mind about them, that is something perplexhig. 
“ One can quite understand. You are here; you pervade 
everything; you are, in a word, happy. When I ruled 
here, things hardly ran so smoothly^ She glances at 
Margery with an expression that is half careless, half wist- 
ful. 

Mrs. Daryl comes to her rescue with a tender grace that 
sits most sweetly on her. 

“ All day the cliildren talk of you and long for you,^^ 
she says; and even as she speaks — as though to corroborate 
her words — the door is flung violently open, and the twins 
rush tumultuously into the room, and precipitate them- 
selves upon Muriel. 

There is rather a paucity of garments about them, and a 
thorough lack of shame. They are as lively as crickets, 
and as full of conversation as a stream. They look tri- 
umphant, too, as though they had discovered a plot against 
them and had overcome it. 

“It is only just this instant we hvard of your coming, 
and when we heard it, we ran. Why didn^t you come up 
to the nursery? We were wide awake. I think Margery 
— with a withering glance at that defaulter — “ might have 
told us, but we found it out from nurse. Did you hear 
Jumper has got a new pup? She had lots more, but that 
horrid Gubbins drowned all its little brothers and sisters. 
And how did you like being abroad? Was it nice? Was it 
hot? Are they all the color of lemons? Was Eome as 
blue as the pictures say?^^ 

“ Bluer,^^ Lady Branksmere assures them, disengaging 
lierself from their somewhat embarrassing embrace, and 
drawing them on to her knees instead. She seems more at 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


49 


home with the two little disheveled lovely things in their 
night-gowns than she has been witli what they would call 
the “ grown ups/^ “ It was all blue; abominably blue/' 
she goes oh, lightly. “It was hideous because of its 
monotony." 

“ And how is Lord Branksmere?" asks little May, pret- 
tily. As the words fall upon the air, it occurs to most of 
those present that the child is the first, the only one, who 
has made a civil inquiry about Muriel's husband. 

Lady Branksmere laughs aloud, but somehow, as if im- 
pulsively, she put the child away from her. 

“ You are a courageous little mortal," she says. “ You 
have actually summoned sufficient courage to ask after the 
Ogre! He is quite well, thank you." She cast a swift 
glance at Margery from under her heavy lids, and seems a 
little amused at the hot blush that has overspread her 
cheeks; but in truth Margery had dreaded to drag Lord 
Branksmere 's name into the conversation. How would it 
have been received? What answer would have been given 
her to any polite inquiiy as to his welfare? 

“ This is not a visit to you — you two," Lady Branks- 
mere is saying to the children. “ To-morrow I shall make 
a formal call upon you, in my carriage, and with my cards, 
and so forth, and will leave my respects, with some bon- 
bons. Pray be careful of all! And, now, considering the 
airiness of your draperies, I would suggest a return to the 
nursery and bed." 

She dismisses the children, who appear to obey her in- 
stinctively, and who are evidently much cheered by the 
prospect of sweetmeats on the morrow, and then turns to 
Margery with a half contemptuous light in her eyes and a 
certain curving of her lips. 

“ Lord Branksmere is quite well, I assure you; you need 
not have been so nervous about making your inquiries," 
she says. “ Don't you think you had better grasp the fact 
at once that he is your brother-in-law?" 

“ Of course — of course," hastily, “ but, you see, he has 
been so much abroad all our lives. We scarcely know 
him, as it were." 

“ True; we scarcely know liim," repeats Lady Branks- 
mere, musingly; which remark, coming from the man's 
wife, rather startles Mrs. Daiyl. 

“ The castle has been exquisitely done up; hasn't it?" 


50 


LADY BRANK8MERE. 


asks Margery. “We heard so, but none of us went over 
to see it. Tell me, Muriel,^'’ bending eagerly forward, 
“ have you seen the old woman yet. Old Lady Branks- 
mere^-’ 

“ Ye-es. What there is of her. She is nothing but 
bones and two large preternaturally bright eyes. One can 
positively hear her rattle when she moves in bed. She is 
very trying, with a distasteful shrug. 

“ She is a witch, explains Margery, turning to Wil- 
helmina. “ Every one is afraid of her. She is about a 
thousand years old, and isnT thinking of dying.' She is 
Branksmere^s grandmother, and he is by no means a 
chicken. Oh, I heg your pardon, Muriel; I only meant — 

“ Branksmere is thirty-six, says Muriel, indifferently. 
“ By the bye,-’^ lookmg suddenly at her sister, “ there is a 
Madame Von Thirsk sta3dng at the castle — living there in 
fact. It appears she has been there for years as attendant 
to the dowager. Ever heard of her?^'’ 

“ Never,^"' "with some surprise. “ But I suppose an 
elderly attendant would be little hear(r of.^-’ 

Elderly? She is young, and remarkably handsome. 
She seems to have made herself a position there, and to 
have a good deal of influence. She came forward to re- 
ceive me this evening on my arrival quite as if — well, as if 
she were mistress of the house, not with a rather strange 
laugh. 

Margery makes a little rmue. 

“ I shouldnT like that,^' she says. 

“ No,^^ returns Lady Branksmere, carelessly; “ I shall 
get rid of her.^^ 

She rises to her feet. 

“ I must be going. It grows very late.'^ 

“ But how do you mean to return 

“ As I came. I walked across the park, and through 
the lower wood. No, I want nothing. I brought my maid 
with me, and I wish you would ring the bell and tell her to 
meet me at the hall-door. Ah! I knew there was some- 
thing I wanted to tell you; I met Tommy Paulyn on my 
way through town, and he has promised to come to me for 
a little while next week.’^ 

She kisses Margery, and then Mrs. Billy, and ijresently 
is out again in the dark night. Here and there an unwill- 
ing star has forced a way into the dull vault above her. 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 


51 


and a hot, sullen wind has arisen amongst the trees. Now 
and then it touches one, but for the most part it is possible 
to forget it. Not a sound wakes the air: 

All things are hush’d, as nature’s self was dead, 

and only occasionally the density of the darkness is re- 
lieved by the glimmering of a white patch upon the aspens. 

The wood belonging to the manor through which she 
must pass on her way to the park that belongs to the cas- 
tle, is naturally well known to Lady Branksmere. De- 
scending into a little grassy hollow, with her maid close at 
her heels, she comes to a standstill, and looks around her. 
The clouds, have parted for a moment, and a watery 
glance from a watery moon makes the pretty hollow, that 
might well be termed a fairy dell, distinctly visible. 

Lady Branksmere looks round her for a moment with a 
sudden shrinking as though taking in each detail. Alas! 
how well remembered it all is — this dainty spot that once 
had been a daily trysting-place. She sighs heavily, and 
then, gathering her cloak more closely round her as though 
a sudden chill has fallen on her heart, moves once more - 
quickly homeward. 

As she nears the castle, a brilliant light from the draw- 
ing-room streams across the lawn almost to her feet. The 
windows are thrown open in the hope perhaps that some 
cool air will travel inward. Muriel, dismissing her maid, 
turns toward the veranda that is illuminated by the light, 
and slowly, with reluctant feet, mounts the steps that lead 
to it. The sound of voices reach her when she has gone 
half-way, and when she has gained the veranda she looks 
curiously through the open window nearest to her into the 
room. 

What she sees there dispels all languor! 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ I vow and protest there’s more plague than pleasure with a 
secret. ’ ’ 

TG upon an ottoman beside a remarkably hand- 
>o.an is a tall man of about thirty-six or so, dark- 
i ! V iti i. dark-complexioned, with a firm mouth and a 


52 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


nondescript nose. A heavy black mustache, partially 
streaked with gray, falls over but hardly conceals his lips, 
which are in a measure thin. His jaws, clean shaven, are 
square. He is not a handsome man, but a very distin- 
guished-looking one — that something infinitely better! 
That he has lived all his time one may see at a glance; 
that he has immense self-control and great power of self- 
repression one reads as one runs. But there is something 
about the stern face that confuses oner’s analysis of the soul 
within — a sadness, a suppression, a strain about the whole 
man that contrasts oddly with the coldness of his bearing, 
and is probably the outcome of some past and terrible 
grief. 

The woman seated beside him, and looking into his face 
with a strange earnestness, is dark and slight, with glist- 
ening, melting black eyes and a lissome willowy figure. 
To an outsider, Mme. von Thirsk, instead of a woman of 
thirty-five, would seem a girl of twenty-one. Lady Branks- 
mere, regarding her from the darkened veranda, acknowl- 
edges the fact. 

Yes! It must never be betrayed; it must always rest a 
secret between you and me,” madame is saying in a low 
agitated tone, her hand pressed upon Lord Branksmere^s 
arm. Every word is distinctly audible to the quiet watcher 
without, who is standing motionless, a silent spectator of 
the picture before her. 

Yet — ” begins Lord Branksmere, with some agitation, 
tell you, 7non ami, there is no ‘^yet,'’ no hesitation in 
this matter. It is between you and me. We two alone 
hold this sorrow. Would you be false to your oath — to 
7ne, after all these years?” She leans toward him. 

Lady Branksmere, on the veranda without, smiles curi- 
ously, and drops her eyes. 

It would make the whole thing in a degree vulgar were 
I to see him kiss her,” she says to herself. As it is, the 
scene is perfect. Well, I owe him little. Eor that, at 
least, I should be grateful. Now, to break up their Ute-a- 
tete .^” 

She steps lightly into the room, and as she comes beneath 
the center chandelier, throws back- the lace veil from her 
head, and looks straight at her husband . 

Where were your” asks he, quid. ■/ rising as sho en 
ters, Some color flames into his face. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


53 


At home, with my people,” returns she, not cnrtly, or 
imcourteonsly, but coldly. 

Ah! At home! says madame, as if not comprehend- 
ing. 

^^Lady Branksmere is alluding to her old home, to the. 
manor,” explains Lord Branksmere, stiffly. 

Yes, to my home,” repeats Muriel, smiling. 

It is strange. We thought you still here,” said mad- 
ame, smiling too. 

Muriel stares at her inquiringly. 

“We? Who.^” demands she. 

Madame grows uncomfortably red beneath the other^s 
contemptuous gaze, and loses herself for a moment in the 
contemplation of her face. Then she rallies a little. 

Lord Branksmere and I,” she answers, equably. Idien, 
with a sudden glance full of seeming anxiety, Was it not 
late? Was it not cold for you out in the open air?” 

“You are very good to trouble yourself so much about 
me,” says Lady Branksmere, still Avith excessive and em- 
barrassing civility, without, however, making even a pre- 
tense of ansAvering her. 

"^JYour friends,” remarks madame, Avith a sudden empha- 
sis, would naturally feel some anxiety about — ” 

Would they?” — (Lady Branksmere interrupts her 
lightly) — ^‘How do you know?” she asks, with the same 
immovable smile. "" My copying the emphasis, 

are very far from this house.” 

Ah! no! You forget your husband,” madame reminds 
her softly. 

There is an instant^s pause, during Avhich she Avatches 
intently the tAvo before her. Lord Branksmere on the 
hearth-rug is staring frowningly at the wall beyond; 
Muriel, with a rather bored expression about her beautiful 
mouth, is lazily unwinding the lace that had encircled her 
throat. No spark of love lights either face, Mme. von 
Thirsk letting her heavily fringed lids droop over her eyes, 
permits a faint smile of satisfaction to curl her lips. 

You Avill excuse me,” she says gently, taking a step for- 
ward, ^^if I Avithdraw to see madame, your grandmother, 
before she retires.” 

Most willingly,” returns Muriel, sAveetly, but insolently. 
iSlie acknowledges madame^s graceful salutation, and then, 
.as if dismissing her from her thoughts as from her pres- 


5i 


LADY HliANKSMERE. 


ence, drops languidly uj)on the lounge, near her, and takes 
up one of the periodicals upon the small table at her 
elbow. 

Lord Branksmere opens the door for madame, and a few 
words pass between them on the threshold. His tone is 
low, but Muriel can not fail to understand that it is apolo- 
getic. She shrugs her shoulders slightly, and turns over 
a leaf with a little unnecessary quickness, then the door is 
closed, and Branksmere, coming back to the fire, stands 
looking down at her. 

You look pale. I hope you haven’t taken a chill,” he 
says at last, politely. ^^Avalking through the night air is 
always a little dangerous.” 

Not to me. It was a usual custom with me to go into 
the garden after dinner before my — When I lived at home. ” 

A pause. 

‘ ^ Don’t you think you will have to do a considerable 
amount of explanation, now and then, if you persist in re- 
fusing to remember that this is now your home?” asks 
Branksmere, with some irritation, badly suppressed. 

No answer. She turns over another page and goes on 
reading as though he had not spoken. 

You find it dull here, no doubt.” This time the irri- 
tation is not suppressed at all. 

^^Here?” lifting her eyes languidly, inquiringly. 
foolish accusation. One could hardly call a place dull on 
a few hours’ acquaintance. ” 

You could, evidently. You were hardly here one hour 
when you left it.” 

‘‘1 was naturally anxious to see my brothers and 
sisters. 

' I had no idea,” with a slight sneer, that you were so 
devoted to your brothers and sisters. ” 

'‘^It is possible that time will even further enlarge your 
ideas about me,” says Lady Branksmere, indift'erently. 
She leans back in her chair, and again has recourse to her 
magazine. 

You remember, perhaps, that we are expecting some 
people on Thursday?’’ 

^^Yes. People? Oh, of course; your guests, you 
mean?” 

She had roused herself with seeming difiiculty from her 
story, and now returns to it. 


LAD\ BRAKKSMEBE. 


55 


'' Your guests rather. 

No answer. 

I hope, at least, you will like the selection I have 
made. ” 

I hope so,^^ absently. 

Next time you can make your own/^ 

“ I dare say.^^ 

think, perhaps, it would be advisable that you 
should know who is coming, says Lord Branksmere, irri- 
tably. 

M V* It is evident she is not listening. 

May I beg that you will give me your attention for a 
few minutes His tone this time is very much louder, 
and Lady Branksmere lifts to him a glance of calm sur- 
prise. 

Ah, you wish to talk — is that it?^^ she asks in a bored 
voice, with an air of intense resignation, laying her maga- 
zine upon her knees. ^^Well?^^ She looks at him lan- 
guidly. 

I wish certainly to interest you in the affairs of your 
household. ” 

If that is so, you are fortunate., I am already deejDly 
interested. I am, Meed, more than interested; I am 
curious. May I ask who is this woman — this housekeeper 
— this madam — who has just quitted the room, and who 
a few hours ago welcomed me so kindly to my own house 

She is M^ame von Thirsk. She can hardly be called 
a housekeeper. She is a great friend, a very tender friend 
of my grandmother^s. ” 

rare friendship! May and December do not, -as a 
rule, lie in each other^s bosoms. Twenty years ago. Lady 
Branksmere must have been pretty much what she is now. 
Twenty years ago, her friend must have been a little girl 
of twelve or so. It is very charming, very picturesque, 
quite a small romance. And this friend: you pay her.?^’ 

‘■^Certainly not.” A dark flush rises to his forehead. 

Good heavens! no,^^ he continues, in a shocked tone. 
^'She^s a very rich woman. She stays here for love of 
Lady Branksmere. 

""Ah! For love of Lady Branksmere! She looks well 
born, yet she resigns the world to take care of an old 
woman, it is a marvelous devotion." 


56 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


Yes. A marvelous devotion,” repeats Branksmere, in 
a low tone. 

She seems clever, too. Has she ” (with a little sneer) 

befriended your grandmother long?” 

She has been with her, off and on, for the last seven 
years, I should say. She is quite an old friend with us 
all.” 

With your sister-in-law, for example?” 

A sad shadow crosses Branksmere^s face. 

Of course, they have met, but not often. I have been 
so seldom at Branksmere, and Lady Anne rarely comes 
here in my absence.” 

She, too, likes this madame?” 

I really can^t say,” impatiently. What an interest 
you take in her.” 

^M¥ell? Is not that what you desired a moment since, 
that I should look after the affairs of my household ? A 
good wife,” with a curl of her red lips, should follow her 
husband^s lead, and you — By the bye, you seemed quite 
engrossed with the conversation of your grandmother^s 
friend, as I came up the balcony steps a little while ago. ” 

Did I? Probably she was telling me something about 
Lady Branksmere.” 

Muriel, throwing back her head against the soft crimson 
silk of the cushions, laughs aloud. At this moment it 
occurs to her how little she really cares. 

You are an excellent grandson,” she says, looking at 
him through half closed lids. ^^Few would lose them- 
selves so entirely as you appeared to do, in a recital of their 
grandmother^s ailments, even with a handsome woman.” 
^ All this is beside the mark,” exclaims Branksmere, 
^ruptly. Why I drew you away from your book was to 
explain to you about our guests of Thursday next. I hope 
at least you will like my sister-in-law. Lady Anne.” 

You forget I have already learned to do that. Lady 
Anne is one of the few people I sincerely admire. She is 
such a distinct, contrast to myself that, if only as a useful 
study, I should' value her. There seems to be no angles 
about her; no corners to be turned. It seems to me in 
every phase of life she would be admirable.” 

“ She is admirable always. Her girlhood, her woman- 
hood, her widowhood, have been alike without reproach.” 

Talking of her reminds me that to-night I met some 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


57 


one else who is likely to suit me. I allude to my brother s 
wife, Mrs. Daryl. She seems a little crude, a little brusque, 
perhaps, but very desirable. 

I am glad you have found some one so much to your 
taste so near you — so near Branksmere.^'’ 

Yes, it is an advantage. Well!^"’ — carelessly — ^^who 
else is coming?" 

The Primroses, the Vyners, Mr. Halkett, Captain 
Staines, and — " 

Lady Branksmere, knocking her arm in some awkward 
fashion against the elbow of her chair, her magazine falls 
to the ground. Her husband stoops to pick it up, and as 
he hands it to her is a little struck by some indefinable 
change in her face. Are her eyes brighter, or her lips 
paler, or is it that — 

You look feverish. I was right about that chill after 
all," he says, slowly. 

If it pleases you, think so," returns she, in a quick 
hard tone. Go on — Mr. Halkett, Captain — Staines did 
you say?" 

You should know him. He was staying down here 
last autumn with some people, I believe. I know little of 
him myself: met him in Brussels about a year ago, and 
yesterday, in Piccadilly, came face to face with him again. 
He happened to mention Vpiers, so as he js an agreeable 
sort of fellow — good connections and all that — I asked him 
to come to us for a fortnight or so. He seemed reluctant, 
I thought. But I suggested to him that the commence- 
ment of the season is always dull, and that a week or so 
in the country would regulate him for it." 

Lady Branksmere, gazing straight into the fire, with liS?^ 
hands tightly clasped, makes no reply to this. Her stat- 
uesque face has grown a little more immovable. Her pose 
is so calm that she scarcely seems to breathe: only the rise 
and fall of the pearls round her white throat betoken the 
life within her. 4 


When the silence has grown rather oppr^sive she rouses 
herself sufficiently to break it. 

There are others?" she asks. 

Lilian Amyot and your cousin Paulyn: Briersly. You 
know you refused to invite any of your own friend' 
was Gu'own on my own resources." 


58 


LADY BRANKBMERB. 


I know that. It was an absurd time to ask any one, 
with the season almost begun. 

As they are asked" — stiffly — hope you will make 
them welcome." 

Even if I didn% I expect it would hardly matter in 
this perfectly managed menag^ — ^with a flash from her 
large eyes. ^^This Madame De — Von — ^whatever it is, has 
been at the head of your affairs for so long that it seems a 
pity to disturb her. " 

I fail to understand you," haughtily. Madame von 
Thirsk has certainly been useful, but — " 

Therefore why should she not go on being useful to 
the end of the chapter? Why defraud yourself of her valu- 
able services for the sake of? — She breaks off impa- 
tiently, with all the air of one who has been giving way to 
speech for the mere sake of tilling up a void, but who is 
hardly aware of Avhat she is saying: '^Why did you ask 
these people here?" she cries, turning now upon Branks- 
mere with sudden passion. 

W^’hen you declined to spend your season in Park Lane, 
I thought it prudent to All Branksmere." 

But why — why feverishly. 

‘^Fearing" — dryly — ^‘^as I said before, that you would 
find this place dull." 

I didnT expect to find it duller than any other place. " 
Her passion has died away from her, and the old insolent 
expression has again crept round her lips. 

Meaning it would be dull anywhere with me?" 

Muriel shrugs her shoulders, but makes no reply. 

Is that your meaning?" 

Would you comyel me to make you a rude answer?" 
^ks she, looking full at him with a contemptuous smile. 
Her defiance mSldens him. 

^^I should prefer a rude one to none at all," he exclaims, 
witih a sudden burst of fury. Your insolent silence is 
more than I can endure." 

'^And I should prefer to make none," returns she, 
smilingly. ^^How shall we decide?" 

Cool and composed, she rises from her seat and looks at 
the ormolu affair on the chimney-piece, that is ticking 
loudly as if to warn them of the passage of time. 

‘ ^most eleven! Too late for further discussion, how- 
‘int," she says, calmly. Good-night, my lord." 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


69 


She waits as if in anticipation of a courteous word from 
him, but receiving none, lifts her brows, and walks de- 
liberately out of the room. 


CHAPTER VIL 

“ Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the 
dove.” 

” Suspicion is a heavy armor.” 

AM sorry to have disturbed you; I believed the room 
empty, says Mme. von Thirsk with a little start, pre- 
paring to close tlie library door’behind her again. 

No, stay. As you are here, perhaps you will let me 
consult with you about these people who are coming to- 
morrow." Lord Branksmere looks up at her with a frown 
bom of anxious thought. He pushes away from him the 
letter he had been writing, but on which his thoughts were 
hardly concentrated, being much more occupied upon a 
resume of the last night^s convel’sation with his wife. 

^‘'To consult with me?" says madame, opening wide her 
velvety eyes. ^^But, surely, there is my Lady Branks- 
mere?" 

Who knows nothing of them — whereas you have met 
them all before," returns Branksmere, irritably. ^^To 
her, they will be strangers; to you, with the keen sense of 
analysis that belongs to you, their idiosyncrasies, their 
'various desires, will be known, and I want them to be com- 
fortable; to feel satisfied with the new regime.^^ He is 
speaking hurriedly; almost, as it seems to her, a little 
nervously. 

Still, it appears in a degree foolish, doesnT it?" asks' 
she, trifling with a pretty oak ornament on the table. If 
your wife is to know these people later on, it would he bet- 
ter she should be made mi fait with their dispositions as 
soon as possible." She Iooks up suddenly. Where is 
she, then? I knew she was out, but I believed you were 
with her." 

It is a little cruel, and Branksmere gives way before it. 
He flushes hotly. 

You must remember she is as yet a little new to every- 
thing," he says, in a constrained tone. ^^And it is only 
natural that she should want just at fii-st to see a good 


60 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


(leal of her own people. Let her rest herself so. You can 
help me to-day in her absence, as you have always done.'’^ 
A quick gleam lights her eyes. She lifts them to 
Branksmere^’s face. There is in them a swift gleam of 
angry hut tender passion that it is as well he does not see. 

As I have always done/^ she repeats, slowly. Then, 
with a change of manner swift as lightning, she flmgs her- 
self into a chair, and draws toward her ink and paper. 

Now for the names of your friends, she cried. You 
forget I donT even know so much. Lady Anne!^^ writing, 
as he dictates to her — ‘^^the Vyners, Primroses, George 

llalkett, Mrs. Amyot, Captain St ” She drops her 

pen and stares up at him — Staines she asks, incredu- 

lously. 

Staines. Yes. Tall fair man in the 10th; or was it 
the 10th? Do you know him?^^ 

■ Not personally. You will remember, paling, ^^how 
complete is my seclusion, as a rule, when living at Branks- 
mere; so complete that my absences have gone unremark- 
ed. But yet, gossip reaches me, the most reserved. I 
know something of this man.^^ 

^‘^Well?'” He waits for a reply, but nothing comes. 
Anything bad?” 

So far; no.” 

An answer worthy of a sibyl.” He draws his chair 
closer to the table. A faint smile curls his lips. Now 
for your news,” he says, banteringly. 

It is unimportant, perhaps ! He w^as staying down 
here with the Adairs for a month or so last autumn. ” 

“ All \2i9,t autumn, as I understand, and far into the 
winter. But that is not a crime, is it?” 

Did I suggest crime?” The expression in her large 
deep eyes is curious. That first insinuation of it rests 
with?/ 02 ^.” She leans toward him across the table, and 
with outstretched arm and fingers attracts his attention. 
Remember!” she says, in a low tone. 

My dear Thekla, what? You grow tragic. You re- 
mind one of that everlasting Charles the First. And yet 
we were not talking of him, but of Staines and his sojourn 
with tlie Adairs last autumn. He is a great friend of 
theirs. ” 

'^Is he? He is then pi-obably a favorite of the gods, 
and all men worship him. The Daryls amongst others.” 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


61 


'^Yes. He seemed to know everybody round here. 
And now that I think of it he specially mentioned the 
Daryls.” 

He shows talent,” says Mme. von Thirsk, with a very 
slow smile. 

He has been unfortunate enough to anger you in some 
way.” 

‘^Pardon me. We have never met. I should not know 
this Monsieur — Staines is it not? — if he were shown into 
this room unannounced.” 

Then you are unjust to him without reason?” 

Yes. But what have I said, then?” asks she, laying 
her beautiful hand protestingly upon her breast witli a 
rather foreign gesture. 

It is your manner, your whole air. As for Staines 
himself, I know little of him; so little, that your innuen- 
does fall on sterile soil. When I asked him to come here 
he happened to mention having been here before. That 
is how I knew of his intimacy with the Adairs. ” 

Did he mention anything else? His 'penchant for Lady 
Branksmere amongst other things?” 

She has risen to her feet and has turned a white deter- 
mined face to Branksmere. 

He, too, has risen. 

Was that so?” he asked in a terrible tone;' and then all 
at once he recovers himself. He lifts his head and laughs 
aloud. that all?” he asks derisively — Poor devil! — 

why, what a mountain you would make out of your mole- 
hill.” 

^^DoiPt invite that man here, Branksmere,” says ma- 
dame, throwing out her arms as thought to ward off some- 
thing, and advancing a step nearer. ^^Be warned in 
time.” 

Your warning comes too late,” lightly. I have in- 
vited him. I expect him by the five train to-morrow. 
Tut! you forget MurieTs beauty!” Her face pales, and her 
hands, still outheld, drop and clasp each other vehement- 
ly. Men must see it. If I were to close my doors to all 
who have bowed at MuriePs shrine, I expect I should know 
but few in the county.” 

^^I would not counsel you to shut your doors on those 
who had loved her” says Mme. von Thirsk, in a low, 
meaning tone. Her eyes are lowered, her supple fingers 


62 


LADY BRANKSMERfi. 


are playing inconsecmently with a paper-knife: there is 
something in her whole air, subtle, untranslatable, but 
suggestive of evil, that fires his blood. 

“ On whom then?^^ demands he, fiercely. 

But Mme. von Thirsk seems wrapped in thoughts of her 
own. 

Your wife,^^ she continues, slowly, not noticing, or else 
ignoring, his burst of temper, is one of the most beauti- 
ful women I have ever seen. She pauses here and brings 
her teeth together. There is a hesitation pregnant with 
emotion, yet it passes; and but that it leaves her nostrils 
dilated, and that she drops a book she had been holding 
down upon the table with a gesture that is almost un- 
govemed, one would scarcely be aware of it. 

She has grown deadly pale, but presently is ' calmness 
itself, and very nearly indifferent. 

If this man once loved her, why expose him to her 
fascinations for the second time?'’^ she says, with veiled 
eyes and an extreme quietude of manner that should have 
warned him. 

It is all mere gossip, declares Branksmere, walking 
impatiently ilp and down the room. 

It may be so. Yet gossip hurts. What if this gossip 
you so despise had gone further?” 

As how?” He stops short and regards her threaten- 
ingly. 

What if it had been,” said she, your wife — yotir wifr, 
Branksmere — had loved him?” 

Branksmere with a sudden imprecation turns upon her. 

“ I warn you !” he exclaims in a voice full of concen- 
trated passion. I desire you not to go too far. I will 
have no word b^;eathed against Lady Branksmere!” 

Madame makes a movement as if to speak, then shrugs 
her shoulders and crushes the desire. 

"^No. Not one word,” she answers, deliberately. ‘^Mt 
was foolish of you, my friend, to presuppose the word was 
there! Yet, hear me, Branksmere. ” Bhe draws nearer, 
and with folded arms looks gravely up at him. After all 
that has passed between us two, surely I have the right to 
speak one warning sentence. Take it to heaid. I tell you 
it is madness to ask that man to your house.” 

K madness I refuse to recognize,” returns he, coldly. 

''As you will, of course,” throwing out her hands with a 


LADY BRANK8MERE. 63 

little foreign gesture. But there is much wisdom in the 
saying that ^ prevention is better than cure. ^ 

There is little wisdom in doubting one^s wife without 
cause. ” 

Madame laughs. 

Ah! you have been too long abroad she says, with 
downcast eyes. 

Lord' Branksmere, going over to the window, flings it 
wide open. The room is growing insuflerably hot. 

You would have me believe something, he says at 
last, in a stifled tone.. What?” 

have already 'said as much as I intend to say. For 
all I know the mischief may be past and gone — and — it 
may notl If I were less your friend I should say less. But 
last night— something in her manner — I hardly know what 
— but it made me fear for you. And think,” with a sud- 
den flash from her dark eyes, how it was she spoke of 
home, and where she placed it! Not here. Not here, 
Branksmere!” 

‘'^How you distort things,” exclaims he; but he writhes 
a little beneath her words. ^^The house that has been 
home for the first twenty years of oner’s life is naturally 
home to the end. In time this place, too, will become 
dear, and — ” His voice dies away. There is some melan- 
choly in it. 

^^Ah! So?” murmurs madame. ^^And she is there 
now. In the present home, eh?^^ 

Yes,” returns Branksmere, shortly. 

♦ ’ ♦ % ♦ ♦ ♦ 

But she is not. She has come back from her morning 
visit to the twins; and is now making a tour of the castle 
with old Mrs. Stout, the housekeeper, as cicerone. The 
galleries, the reception-rooms, and all the principal parts 
of the house are known to her of 6ld, but with the idle 
curiosity of it child she is now wandering aimlessly through 
disused upper rooms, and peering idly into dainty boudoirs, 
and examining with a leisurely interest the precious apart- 
ments so soon to be occupied by her unknown guests. 

Mrs. Stout, who is as discursive as she is fleshy, is hold- 
ing forth in a rambling fashion about all the Branksmeres 
dead and gone, both those under whom she has served and 
those defimct before her time — which has been indefinite- 
ly prolonged. Her extremely engaging conversation brings 


64 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


them presently to the passage that leads to the apartments 
of the dowager. They are situated in a side wing, some- 
what apart from the rest of the house, an excrescence of a 
later date that juts out from the northern end in a rather 
inconsequent way. It is a wing of large dimensions, and as 
old Lady Branksmere^’s rooms cai; be counted on two fin- 
gers, it occurs to Muriel that she would like to investigate 
those beyond the dowager^s domain. She makes a step, 
therefore, into the passage. 

Her ladyship does not receive to-day,^-’ says the house- 
keeper, but no doubt if you, my lady, desire to see her, 
' she — " 

Hot to-day,” says Muriel. But I should like to visit 
the rooms beyond. This part of the house looks so mys- 
terious, so cut off from the rest of it, that I have a strange 
longing to make myself acquainted with it. ” 

The corridor leading to Lady Branksmere^s rooms is cut 
off from the outer gallery by a huge baize door concealed 
by a falling curtain of faded tapestry. Beyond these rooms 
lies another door also hidden by a drooping curtain. Mu- 
riel as she speaks moves toward it, and laying her hand 
upon the handle of the door tries to open it. It resists her 
efforts. 

The keys,” she says, turning rather impatiently to the 
housekeeper. 

I havenT them, my lady. The rooms beyond belong 
to Madame Thirsk. Ho one is ever allowed to enter them,” 
replies Mrs. Stout, with an odd glance at her mistress, 
except Mrs. Brooks.” Mrs. Brooks is the dowager’s at- 
tendant. 

^‘^But there must be six or seven rooms in this wing?” 
questions Muriel, coloring warmly. 

Seven, my lady.” 

Surely, Madame von Thirsk does not require them 
all?” 

Apparently she does my lady. I have been here now 
close on six years, and no one has ever gone into them save 
madame herself or Mrs. Brooks. They do say as how it is 
haunted, but that, of course, is not for your ladyship to 
believe.” Mrs. Stout drops a respectful courtesy and a 
second glance at Muriel that declares her own belief in it at 
all events, and that she could say a good deal more on the 
Subject if pressed. 


LADY BKA^TKSMERE. 65 

Haunted! By what?” asks Muriel, with some faint 
show of interest. 

^‘^Ah! That is what no one knows, my lady. There 
have only been footsteps heard and — and screams at odd 
intervals. But the story goes that a former lady of Branks- 
mere flung herself from one of the windows in this part of 
the house, because, poor lady, she was forbidden to see her 
young — that is — ahem I — the gentleman she fancied,” winds 
up Mrs. Stout, with an apologetic cough. 

Locked up by the orthodox cruel parent, no doubt,” 
says Lady Branksmere, with a half smile. 

‘^^Well, not exactly, ma^am. It was a cruel husband 
that time,” murmurs Mrs. Stout, mildly. 

Husband!” 

‘^^Yes — begging your ladyship^s pardon! There was a 
husband, sure enough, but it appears the poor creature 
didnT take to him much, but had a hankering like after 
an oldTover of hers, as was most natural.” 

^^Take care, Mrs. Stout,” laughs Muriel, carelessly- 
making a weak effort to smother a yawn. “ I doubt your 
morals are not altogether sound.” 

I think time will prove you wrong there, my lady,” re- 
turns Mrs. Stout, stiffly, crossing her arms on her highly 
developed bosom with a primness not to be surpassed. 

Immorality has never been attributed to Jane Stout!” 
She sets her lips into a round 0, and flickers her lids 
rapidly. 

‘'‘'No. One can quite understand that — poor Jane 
Stout!” returns Lady Branksmere, laughing again, as she 
casts an amused glance at the housekeeper's full, fat face. 
^^But to your tale. I will not be spared one ghastly de- 
tail. 

My lord could tell you all about it far better than I 
can, madam; but the end of it was that the miserable lady 
threw herself out of one of the windows on a starlight night, 
and her body was found next morning in the stone court- 
yard beneath, all crushed and mangled, and so disfigured 
that they scarcely knew her. ” 

A second Jezebel,” remarks Muriel, with a faint shrug 
expressive of disgust. ^^And now she walks the earth 
again, you tell me, in dainty raiment, as when she lived? — 
or — as they picked her up from the stained court- 3 ^ard?” 

^‘'Who can say, my lady!” The housekeeper shrinks a 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


GG • 

little as if terror-stricken. ^Tis only known for certain 
tliat sometimes, on moonlight nights, one can hear an un- 
earthly yell that comes from behind the closed door. It 
is^^ (lowering her voice instinctively) ^‘^the cry the poor 
soul gave when falling. 

Mrs. Stout looks fearfully over her shoulder to where the 
shadows are darkening the gallery outside. Muriel shud- 
ders. 

You — did you ever hear it?^"' she asks. The story has 
begun to have a fascination for her, as strange as it is pro- 
found. 

Once, madame,^^ whispers the housekeeper, reluctantly. 

But the dowager lady is sometimes a little nervous. Brooks 
tells me, and I thought perhaps — She pauses embar- 
rassed. 

That the sound came from her, or else from a heated 
imagination,^^ finishes Muriel for her, smiling again. 

Well, the thought is uncanny, however it goes/^ ' 

She shakes off the grewsome feeling that had made its 
own of her, and once more glances at the carefully guarded 
door. 

I must then apply to Madame von Thirsk for the keys 
of this wing?^^ she asks slowly. 

Yes, my lady; or to his lordship.'’^ 

Muriel turns a cold face to the woman, and then as she 
is about to speak checks herself abruptly. There is haughty 
astonishment in her glance, and Mrs. Stout, who in truth 
had spoken without motive, grows hot and imcomfortable 
beneath it. 

At this moment the heavy baize-covered door is flung 
open, and Mme. von Thirsk steps softly out into the cor- 
ridor! 


CHAPTEE Vni. 

“ That practis’d falsehood under saintly show, 

Beep malice to conceal, couch’d with revenge. 

* * * * * ** 

Words are like leaves, and where they most abound 
Much fruit of sense lK3neath is rarely found.” 

* * * * * * 

^^You!^^ The word falls from Mme. von Thirsk as 
though without her knowledge. Her eyes are fixed coldly 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


67 


upon Muriel. She is so amazed that for the moment her 
self-possession forsakes her, and she speaks with a total for- 
getfulness of the suavity so dear to her. 

‘^Yes, it is returns Muriel, calmly; was anxious 
to see this part of the house, but Mrs. Stout has told me 
that it is to you I must come for the keys of it. 

Mrs. Stout, with a discretion that does her credit, has 
dropped a courtesy and is out of sight, upon the appearance 
of madame. 

^^It is true that my rooms lie beyond here,’^ answers 
madame now, with a little friendly nod between each word. 
She h^s quite recovered herself, and as she speaks comes a 
step or two nearer to Muriel, and then, turning, proceeds 
very deliberately to lock the door behind her. 

The action is significant, and Lady Branksmere draws 
her next breath somewhat quickly. 

^^Your rooms. Yes,” she says, with a coolness that, 
under the circumstances, is very nearly perfect. would 
not interfere with them, as long as you remain here; but 
Mrs. Stout tells me there are at least seven apartments in 
this wing.” 

Six,” corrects madame, amiably, and with a full com- 
plement of the most charming non comprehension. 

What I wisli to see,” continues Muriel, stolidly, are 
the rooms out of these six that you do not occupy. Your 
boudoir, your bedroom, are your own; but the others?” 

‘^^The others,” echoes madame, witl^an expressive little 
shrug. ^^Ah! You do not know, perhaps, that I do a 
little dilletante painting. Just quite a very little. But it 
is a joy to me, and I liate that the servants should meddle 
with my alfairs, and — ” 

‘'^But six rooms for painting,” interrupts Lady Branks- 
mere, tlioughtfully, but ruthlessly. 

Not altogether, you will understand.” Then, with 
graceful politeness, ^^You desire the wing, perhaps? It 
has been, up to this, apportioned to your husband^’s grmid- 
mother, she being, unfortunately, attached to it for many 
reasons — and to me it is convenient, as being near to her, 
so that at any moment, night or day, I may reach her 
without disturbing the household; but, if you wish it” — 
blandly — ^^we can, of course, move, we — ” 

do not wish to disturb Lady Branksmere inany w^ay,” 
protests Muriel, haughtily. I merely expressed’ a desire 


68 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


to see this portion of my own house/^ There is distinct ex- 
pectancy in her manner, but madame refuses to hear it. 

“ Ah!^^ she says with an agreeable little smile, and slips 
the key she holds into her pocket. She lets her lashes fall 
over her eyes. There is something irritating in this down- 
ward glance, something baffling in the very way the mean- 
ingless monosyllable drops from her lips. 

As though oppressed by the smoothness of her, Lady 
Branksmere throws up her head with a brusqueness foreign 
to her nature. But there is something healthy at least in 
the quick clear tones that ring through the corridor. 

It appears, then, that I can not?” she says, with j^ale 
smile. 

If, indeed, I might still consider this small portion of 
your house ” (with a peculiar bow) as belonging to me 
and my patient. Lady Branksmere, I should be grateful,” 
returns madame, meekly. Her eyes are still lowered. With 
one small, shapely, brown hand she smooths down a re- 
bellious bit of the costly lace that throws out the color of 
her gown. 

Lady Branksmere, conquered for the moment, angry hut 
.speechless, makes her a slight inclination that is imperious 
enough to emanate from a sovereign to a subject, and turns 
away. But in a moment returns. 

You say the servants are forbidden to enter your 
rooms, ”^she says, looking straight at madame. No one, 
then, has access theye save you?” 

And Mrs. Brooks. She it is” (pointedly) ‘^‘‘who sum- 
mons me at night to the bedside of — my patient — when my 
presence there is necessary, which ” (with slow force) ^^is 
very frequently. 

Mrs. Brooks only?” 

I have said,” returns madame, decisively. 

So?” says Lady Branksmere, with extreme contempt. 

It seems a pity, madame, you will permit no one to see 
these paintings of yours, which, I am sure, are well worth 
a visit. ” 

She turns away with an insolent air, and goes down the 
gallery with her usual slow and stately step. 

But her heart is beating wildly, and a sense of defeat is 
macklening her. Oh, how to get rid of this woman ! It is 
the one thought that fills her; that torments hei\ IL ..is 
it will be a more difficult matter than she first drc- > mea of 


LADY BRAJTKSMERE. 


69 


to turn her adrift. Her mind rims swiftly to old Lady 
Branksmere — that aged;, infirm creature, whose sole com- 
foi-t lies in the ministrations of this foreign friend. By 
what right could she deprive this helpless, stricken being 
of her last joy? How reconcile it to her conscience? Yet 
that woman^s insolence T The insolence of her! She stoj^s 
short when she has turned a corner, and is out of sight of 
her foe, and clinches her hands with uncontrollable passion. 
Her face fiames, and then grows deadly pale. The keys! 
She, the mistress, is to demand them presently from her, 
or from his lordship ! 

Suddenly all the passion dies from her face. She grows 
singularly calm. But her lips as she moves onward seem 
to have taken a hard, stern, determined line. 

From the south gallery comes the sound of many voices 
and much laughter, and the welcome clatter of cups and 
saucers; the breath of innumerable roses, mingled with the 
fragrant odor of the steaming tea, floats on the air. The 
servants, by mutual consent, have been relegated to limbo, 
and the men are having a somewhat busy time of it carry- 
ing the little dainty Wedgwood cups, and their gaudier 
sisters of Crown Derby, to and fro, whilst paying a gentle 
attention to the delicate hot cakes that are calling aloud 
for notice from their gleaming tripods. 

A huge fire of pine logs lying on the open hearth is roar- 
ing, crackling, in a jolly inconsequent fashion, its flames 
lighting up and bringing into prominence the exquisite old 
chimney-piece of carved and blackened oak that rises to 
the ceiling. In the deep cushioned recesses of the windows, 
tall palms and feathery ferns are flourishing in monster 
pots of Oriental ware, and well in the distance a stand of 
glorious daffodils and narcissi are sending forth a subtle 
perfume. 

A tall, lean, old wolf-hound is walking majestically up 
and down among the assembled guests — ^from the gaudy 
screens that cut off draughts — from the lower end of the 
gallery to the dim tapestry hangings that ornament the 
other end — taking, with a deep solemnity as his ji^t due, , 
the pats and pretty words that greet him as he goes. 

'^rlie walls are sparsely studded with priceless plates of 
hideous colors and designs, and on a large black rug a 


70 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


little sleepy puss is snoring blissfully. Taken as a whole, 
it is a charming picture, and Lady Branksmere, standing 
on the Persian mat before the fire, in a tea gown of ancient 
brocade, completes it. 

She is talking to old Lady Primrose — a placid person 
with corkscrew ringlets and a desirable son — and is Smiling 
kindly. She is looking pale and slender and extremely 
beautiful. The intense hues of the brocade throw out her 
pallor and heighten the brilliance of her large eyes. She is 
giving her whole mind apparently to her convei’sation with 
the old lady, who has passed the bounds of hearing, and 
has to be paid severe attention if you wish her to know 
what you are at. MuriePs clear, distinct tones suit her ad- 
mirably, and almost awoke within her breast the delusion 
that her ears are as satisfactory as those of most people. 

Everybody is talking more or less, and the soft hubbub 
caused by the voices grows drowsy. Somebody at the upper 
end of the gallery is playing the piano very delicately — 
almost in a whisper, as it were — a fair woman of about 
thirty-three, with a charming face, and a quantity of 
loosely dressed golden hair. Besides letting her fingers 
wander tenderly over the notes, she is conversing in an un- 
derton'e with a little man of a rather comical exterior, who 
is bending over her. This is Lord Primrose, who, if ISTature 
had endowed him with corkscrew ringlets, would have been 
the image of his mother. As she gets deeper into her sub- 
ject with him, the music, perhaps in accordance with her 
thoughts, grows slower and slower until- at last it reaches 
an andante pitch. 

Lady Anne! Lady Anne!” calls a tall, ugly man with 
a clever face, is the time, the place, the hour nothing to 
you? Your music is always the best — but — I leave it to 
you! Should one play a funeral march amidst the fiesh- 
pots of Egypt?” 

“Ah! pardon, pardon!” laughs Lady Anne, shrugging 
her handsome shoulders. “ But, then, you must remem- 
ber, Mr. Halkett, I was not playing to you, but to Lord- 
Primrose. He likes dismal things. ” 

“How we go astray. I quite thought he liked you!” 
•says the ugly young man. 

“ Growing up amongst us — ” begins a loud voice, that 
strikes every one dumb for a moment. It emanates from 
a short, stout person, in a bonnet of shape indescribable. 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 71 

It comes, indeed, from Miss Mumm, the Daryls^ Aunt 
Selina. 

Good heavens! I quite thought it was a dynamite ex- 
plosion,” whispers the Hon. Mrs. Vyner, in her usual af- 
fected lisp. '‘^What a cruel voice! And what is growing 
up amongst us? Is it Primrose?” 

Not at all. She is alluding to herself. She is quite a 
young thing yet,” says Mr. Halkett. 

She! Let her explain. She is going on with it,” mur- 
murs Mrs. Amyot, holding up a warning finger. 

Growing up amongst us,” continues Miss Mumm, in 
her loud, rasping tones, is a most reprehensible and de- 
testable — er — ” 

Person?” suggests Mr. Halkett, considerately. 

^^No, sir! A most reprehensible habit of drag- 

ging into frivolous and idiotic conversations extracts from 
Holy Writ! §uch a practice can not he too heavily censured. 
The flesh-pots of Egypt have just been alluded to. Does 
anybody know where they are first mentioned? Are such 
things to be lightly spoken of? We know ” — with a severe 
glance at Halkett— who it is who quotes Scripture for his 
own ends. ” 

Everybody is, of course, .delighted. 

There,” says Margery Daryl, who, in a big hat and 
white gown, is looking as pretty as possible; ^^you see what 
Aunt Selina has called you!” 

‘‘ You mustnT condemn us all as frivolous, dear Miss 
Mumm,” Mrs. Amyot is saying, in her sweetest way. She 
is a pretty little widow, with dark eyes and amber hair, 
and the reputation of being a little — well, just a little — 

Yes, Muriel is quite all I can desire,” says the spinster, 
magisterially. She is my idea of what a properly con- 
ducted young married woman should be. There are no 
whisperings in corners here, ifo runnings up the stairs and 
fingerings in corridors; no vulgar clasping of hands beneath 
the cover of the table-cloth, as I regret to say is the low 
practice of some young unmarried folk. Muriel is digni- 
fied. I could hardly fancy a situation in which she would 
fail to comport herself with becoming grace. ” 

“1, as you may possibly know, am always regarded as 
quite a model, and there is your niece. Lady Branksihere, 
for example, eh?” 


72 


LADY BRAN’KSMERE. 


At this moment a servant throws wide the tapestry 
hangings at the end of the gallery and announces: 

Captain Staines/^ 


CHAPTEE IX. 

“ Suspicion sleeps at wisdom’s gate.” 

‘X' -X- 'X- ‘X- « 

‘ ‘ Knowledge is power. ’ ’ 

* * * * * 

Involuntarily Lord Branksmere lifts his eyes and 
turns them upon his wife. 

I hope Jenkins was in time to meet your train? He 
started rather late/’ says Lady Branksmere, advancing so 
very indolently to welcome the new-comer, that as his hand 
touches hers she is still on the border of the Persian rug. 
Her voice is. cold and firm, as usual, her color unchanged. 
Hot so much as a flicker of her long, heavy lashes betrays 
the fact that she remembers that this man, standing now 
before her — with a stoicism scarcely so perfect as her own 
— was her chosen lover only three short months ago! Her 
unconcern is so complete, so utterly without offort (ap- 
parently) that Branksmere draws a breath of passionate 
relief. He had almost forgotten where he was in his eager 
examination of his wife^s features, until startled into re- 
membrance by a whisper at his side. 

It is scarcely a whisper, either, rather a word or two 
spoken involuntarily. Mme. von Thirsk standing beside 
him, with her lithe form rather bent forward, is also watch- 
ing MuriePs reception of Captain Staines with an intensity 
of expression that surprises Branksmere. As MuriePs cold, 
measured tones meet her eai^ she draws a breath of admi- 
ration. 

Magnificent!^^ she says, in the subdued voice that had 
startled him. 

^^What?” he asks, sharply, turning abruptly to her. 
'^he colors faintly and then shrugs her shoulders. 

That old brocade, with a little supercilious glance at 
MuriePs toilet, and an ambiguous smile. She moves away 
from’ him with lowered eyes to where Mrs. Daryl is stand- 
ing, in one of the windows. 


LADY DRANKSMEEE. 73 

^^Isay!” says Mrs. Amyot, ^^that is Captain Staines, 
isn^t it? Some little story about him, wasn^t there ?^^ 

1 never heard it amounted to that, drawls Mrs. Vyner. 

He was very decidedly epris with her before her mar- 
riage, hut — 

IVhth whom?” 

Lady Branksmere, of course. Why, what were you 
alluding to?” 

‘^‘^Ah? so! Iladn^t a notion of such an atfair Sisthat. 
But really one never knows what those immaculate-looking 
women are going to be up to next. In love with him be- 
fore marriage, you say. And now she has him here?” 

By Branksmere^s desire, not hers. It was Branksmere 
himself who specially invited him.” 

^^Ah! now, that was kind!” . exclaims Mrs. Amyot, 
breaking into an irrepressible little laugh. 

^‘Whak's the joke.^” asks Halkett, droj^ping into the 
chair nearest to her; as a rule, he is always just there. 

Anything I may hear without detriment to my morals?” 

One knows so little about them ” hesitates Mrs. Amyot. 

They are unobtrusive, certainly. I donT show them 
off like Miss Mumm. You must take them for granted.” 

I shouldnT like to take them at all,” lisps Mrs. Vyner, 
unfurling her fan. 

‘^1 shall tell Colonel Vyner about your incivility to me,” 
says Halkett, if you persist in this persecution of an un- 
protected young man. By the bye, is he here?” 

He is always en evidence. One can not escape him,” 
says Colonel Vyner ^s wife, with a soft grimace. 

Well, I still want to hear about what was amusing you 
so intensely a moment since,” persists Halkett, looking at 
Mrs. Amyot, if I may, without blushing,” 

^^That, certamly,” casting a coquettish glance at him 
from under her exquisitely fringed lids. That pretty ac- 
complishment has been forgotten by you for many a day.. 
Mrs. V 5 mer and I were merely discussing the amiability of 
the present age!” Here she leans a little toward her friend. 

My little story was not yours ” she murmurs, conliden- 
tially. Sentiment had nothing to do with it. It was 
something else. Gambling debts, a row of some sort in 
some club abroad. To tell you the truth, I am always 
rather vague about my little stories unless the subjects of 
them happen to be — ” 


74 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


Your intimate friends," interposes Halkett, gayly. 

make it acquaintances. It sounds better," re- 
turns Mrs. Amyot, composedly. 

Talking of them," yawns Mrs. Yyner, ^^did you ever 
see any one wear like Madame von Thirsk? How she 
chooses her gowns! It^s talent — positive talent! Thirty, 
if a day, and doesnT look twenty-two. I hope when I^m 
run thirty I^’ll look half as well." 

When will that be?" asks Mrs. Amyot, mischievously. 

Never!" calmly. I have made up my mind to go 
from twenty-eight to fifty in a week. But pay attention to 
madame. She is worth it. " 

She is very careful, certainly, and she is foreign. The 
latter counts a great deal. " 

I think it is all those dear little soft high frills she 
wears round her throat," says Mrs. Amyot, reflectively. 
^'Nothing betrays one like the throat. But I donT 
admire her as much as you do. There is a sly, catty 
look about her that annoys me. If I were Lady Branks- 
mere — " 

Well?" 

I should give her her walking-papers straight off." 

^^You should remember how good she has been to 
Branksmere all these years — or at least to his grand- 
mother," murmurs Mrs. Vyner, demurely. “ And then 
— he has asked Captain Staines to his house. There is 
such a thing as gratitude." 

‘^^Oh! Branksmere^s all right," says Halkett, suddenly. 

And Lady Branksmere — " 

^^Is handsome enough to upset all our apple-carts," 
laughs Mrs. Amyot. Therefore, we owe her one. But 
Captain Staines! HewouldnT suit we, at all events." 

I wonder who would?" asks Halkett, carelessly, dart- 
ing a swift glance at her. 

. You do admirably," retorts she, saucily. The answer 
is so unexpected that the three burst out laughing. 

^^No— no more tea, thank you, Mr. Bellew," says Mrs. 
Amyot, looking up at Curzon. ^^But you can give me 
something else — information about that little woman in the 
window talking to madame." 

That is Mrs. Daryl. A new-comer altogether. She 
married Billy Daryl lately, or he married her. I^m not 
sure which. Anything else I can do for you?" 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


75 


^^Yes. Go back to Margery/' with a smile. So/' 
turning to Lord Primrose, who has just joined them, that 
is Mrs. Daryl? Big heiress, wasn't she?" 

Yes. She was the only child of her father, and he 
was a rag and hone merchant." 

Not at all," corrects Mrs. Vyner, languidly. Three 
lovely golden balls hung before his door, and — " 

She didn't get a penny from her father," interrupts 
Halkett. There was an old general something or other, 
an uncle of hers, who enriched her. She was in America 
for the best part of her young life, then came back to Eng- 
land, and was companion to two crotchety old cousins, 
whom the gods (as they boast so much of their justice) 
should confound, and then Billy looked her up, and then 
the general evaporated, leaving his winnings behind him, 
and — that's all. You'll like her. She's real grit, as they 
say in her early home. " 

Strangers are often interesting. I shall make myself 
pretty to her," says Mrs. Amyot. By the bye, she ap- 
pears to know Captain Staines, at all events!" 

Muriel's chilling reception of him had somewhat discon- 
certed Captain Staines on his first entry. He had closed 
his interview with her as speedily as possible, and wandered 
away aimlessly through the gallery, stopping now and then 
to say a word or two to those he knew. A large part of 
the county had by chance chosen to-day to call upon the 
bride, so that the place was rather full, the guests staying 
in the house not being inconsiderable in themselves. Staines, 
walking through them with his tall, upright figure and 
handsome face, is distinctly noticeable. He is a fair man, 
with a long, drooping mustache, and straight nose, and 
large, but rather light, blue eyes. There is a little scar 
upon his left temple that rather adds to than detracts from 
his appearance. Beyond all doubt he is a man worthy of 
a second glance, and yet there is something about his face 
that, to the thoughtful few, gives ground for speculation. 
Is it that the brilliant eyes are too closely set, or perhaps a 
little shifty, or is it that there is a touch of cruelty in the 
well-formed mouth? 

With some people, at all events, it apjiears he is hardly 
a favorite; Colonel Vyner receives his advances but coldly, 
and Lord Primrose grows even more devoted to Lady Anne 
as he d raws near. Lady Anne herself is very gracious, but 


70 


LABY BRAKKSMERE. 


tlien — could she be otherwise? Old Sir Stapleton Gore, 
tooy is very aniiahle to him, and Billy Daryl accepts him 
with effusion. Billy had seen a good deal of him last au- 
tumn, and now, under the impression that his sister. Lady 
Branksmere, had not behaved altogether well to him in 
throwing him over for a better parti, feels it incumbent 
upon him to be specially civil. 

Staines, turning suddenly round, finds himself face to 
face with Mrs. Daryl. 

To a thoughtful observer it might suggest itself that 
when he so finds himself he would gladly (for the time be- 
ing at last) be blotted out of remembrance. His pale skin 
grows paler, and he so far forgets his usually perfect 
manners as to omit to take the hand she holds out to him. 
After an instant^s hesitation: 

^^This is a surprise, is it not?^^ smiles she, calmly. 
^^But I should have given you credit for being proof 
against all casualities of such a nature. It is the unex- 
pected that always happens. Have you never yet taken 
tliat to heart ?"^ 

Willy — begins he, confusedly. 

Mrs. Daryl — " interrupted she, icily, and turns away. 

I beg your pardon, exclaims he, following her further 
into tlie window recess. ‘‘1 know nothing, remember 
that. You are married, then? and to Daryl? By Jove! 
You — you are Lady Branksm Orel’s sister-in-law?^^ 

Yes. Why should the fact cause you emotion?” asks 
she, contemptuously, looking at his flushed face and com- 
pressed lips. 

It doesnT,” returns he, making an effort at composure. 

Is that so? Then why have you grown so red?” de- 
mands Mrs. Daryl, in her terribly straightforward way. 

Look here, my friend! if you have come down here with 
the intention of making it unpleasant for anybody, IM ad- 
vise you to chuck up that intention as speedily as possible. 
Vm here too!” 

‘‘1 doiiT see why you attack me like this,” said Staines, 
sulkily. Then suddenly he lifts his head and looks at her; 

canT we be friends?” asks he. 

‘■^Friends? Ho!” 

Hot foes, at least?” ' . 

She is silent. 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 77 

Betrayal will cost yow dearer than says Staines, 
in a low, deliberate tone. 

I think not,” slowly. Then she looks at him. 
Goiuarcl!” she says, scornfully. 

A woman^s good name is a brittle thing. A touch 
smashes it.” 

Yet, I am not afraid. You will never he able to smash 
mine; whereas you will recall, perhaps, that little aifair 
with Grevecoeur and — ” 

Staines grows livid. 

^^Hah!” laughs she, lightly. ^^That touches you, it 
seems. Take heart. I am not going to set the social blood- 
hounds on your track — yet, ” 

Sign a truce with me then,” exclaims he, eagerly. 

To be kept sacred just so long as I see you conducting 
yourself properly,” returns she, meaningly. . Now go. 
The very sight of you is hateful to me. ” 

She seems to breathe more freely when he has left her, 
and turns with a glad smile to Margery, who draws near 
with Curzon Belle w at her side. The girl is looking singu- 
larly pretty to-day, though perhaps a little petulant — as 
she generally does when Bellew is with her — but charming 
all the same, with her dainty oval face, and saucy lips, and 
eyes most wonderful — laughing, roguish, wicked, tender, 
cruel eyes — ^guarded jealously by their long curved lashes. 

Just now she is looking a little worried, but Mrs. Daryl 
is not allowed time to inquire into the matter. Lady 
Branksmere, sweeping up to them, lays her hand on 
AVilhelmina'’s arm. 

I want to introduce you to Lady Anne,” she says, in 
the softly imperious way that belong to her and suits her. 
Mrs. Daryl follows her. Half-way across the gallery Muriel 
looks round. 

So you know Captain Staines?” 

Slightly, yes. I met him abroad, in Brussels, where 
the old people went once and took me with them. ” 

Then Lady Anne is reached, and the introduction in gone 
through. 

Meantime, Margery has sunk in a rather dejected fashion 
upon the deep window seat, and is gazing out upon the 
wooded hill steeped in dying sunshine, and on the lake far 
down below that is- sparkling as if incandescent. 


78 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 


You didn^t mean it really, did you?^^ asks Belle w, pres- 
ently. 

That I am not going to the county ball, next Thurs- 
day fortnight? Certainly, I meant it. Why should you 
doubt me?^^ 

^^But your reason?” 

‘‘ Eeasons rather, for they are ^ plentiful as blackberries.^ 
But why should I give them?” 

Give one at least,” pleads he. 

Take the principal one, then. I liavenT a gown fit to 
be seen in.” 

Oh! stuff and nonsense,” says Mr. Bellew, with quite a 
superior air. 

“1 dare say!” indignantly. ^^That is just the brilliant 
remark one might expect you to make. But there is very 
little nonsense about it, let me tell you, and no stuff at all 
—not a yard of it — or probably IM go. But to appear 
shabbily gowned is a thing I will not do. If I did,” with 
a withering and most uncalled-for glance at her slave, 
you would be the very first to find fault with me.” 
would?” 

Yes, you. Picture me to yourself in that heirloom of 
mine — the old white silk — ” 

You look lovely in it — ” 

Amongst all the others tricked out in their best bibs 
and tuckers straight from White and Worth. Confess you 
would be ashamed of me. ” 

Ashamed!” 

Yes, thoroughly,” with decision. You neednT im- 
agine that you are a bit better than the rest of you, and 
all men hate a dowdy Avoman. ” 

I donT see what that’s got to do with you.” 

^^Mrs. Amyot has been teaching you to make pretty 
speeches.” 

She has done nothing of the sort. I expect,” indig- 
nantly, she has something better to do.” 

^^Well! you iieednT lose your temper about it. If,” 
provokingly, and with a side-glance at him from under her 
long lashes, ^‘'you are in love with her, I see notliing to be 
concealed.” 

I haven’t lost my temper about anything,” angrily. 
And I’m not in love with — ” 

Anybody ! Sensible boy!” interruiAts Miss Daryl, gayly. 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


79 


Keep to that till your hair is gray, and youll die a happy 
old man. No! Not another word about this odious ball, 
l^m not going, because I haven^t a respectable rag to put 
on, and there^s an end of it. The humilating truth has 
been laid bare to you. Eespect it, and help me to forget 
all about it." 

An expression that is distinctly miserable clouds Mr. 
Bellew^s face. 

wish — he begins with a rush, and then comes to a 
dead pause. 

So do I, for lots of things," agreeably. 

It was hardly that I was going to say. What I mean 
is " — coloring warmly — that if I could only have my own 
way — " Another eloquent hesitation. 

You would probably be the most wretched person upon 
earth. Have you never yet grasped that highly improving, 
if slightly bilious tract that Goldie distributes to the young 
people of the parish every Sunday? Oh, Curzon! I doubt 
you arenT all that you ought to be!" 

^^Look here," says Mr. Bellew, desperately, who hasiiT 
heard a word of the foregoing denunciation, all that I 
want is — to give you all that you w^ant." 

Now, that is what I call true amiability," says Margery. 

Mr. Goldie will be proud of you yet. To give me all that 
1 want? As, for example?" 

^^Anewgow'n for this ball!" blurts out he, miserably, 
and then looks ready to faint with fright. 

Margery has turned aside. The heavy amber satin cur- 
tains conceal her effectually from the sight of all but him, 
and therefore she covers her face with both her hands, in 
peace. Her head is bent. She is trembling! 

Mr. Bellew's soul dies within him. Is she angry.^ — 
hopelessly offended, perhaps! What the deuce made him 
say that? What imp of darkness persuaded him to offer 
her such an insult? SheH never forgive it! Ik’s — it’s just . 
the sort of thing that — or — perhaps a woman wouldnH for- 
give? Oh, if she would only say something? A jolly good 
rowing would be a matter for gratitude if comj^ared with 
this. 

The silence is growing intolerable. Curzon, having 
his mihd to break it at all hazards, looks at her 

: and as he does so a certain little motion of her 

.. •'M - becomes known to him. Is she crying? He 


80 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


grows cold with apprehension. He has, then, not only 
offended but hurt her! 

exclaims he, softly, but vehemently, ^Het me 
explain. You are awfully angry now, I can see; but if you 
knew the truth — if you could see into my heart! Turn 
round, canT you, and listen to me?^^ 

But Miss Daryl plainly declines either to turn round or 
listen. That mournful motion of her pretty shoulders grows 
stronger, more pronounced. She is evidently convulsed 
with grief. What on earth is to become of him if she won’t 
even hear his apology? 

You luill listen, won’t you?” stammers he, wretchedly. 

I’m the unluckiest beggar alive, I do believe, but in this 
affair I am innocent.” 

No answer. 

My dear girl, you must believe me. 

Not a word. Gracious powers! What is he to do next? 

If you go on ciying like that,” declares he, desperately, 
^^you will drive me out of my mind. Even if I had meant 
it, you couldn’t take it worse, but I didn^t !” 

He throws out his hands in frantic protest. 

’Pon my soul I didn’t! There! the words slipped out 
somehow, but I meant nothing. I sioear it!” 

Miss Daryl, as though roused to life by this passionate 
declaration, turns slowly round and surveys him through 
half-open fingers that are slender and pale and j^ink-tipped 
—the most kissable fingers ever created, according to her 
adorers. 

Well, of all the mean speeches!” she says, deliberately. 
She is flushed, but not with grief; her eyes are all alight, 
her lovely Ups parted; she is evidently consumed with 
laughter. 

Then you won’t give me that gown after all?” she goes 
on. And when you \\2A promised it, too? Oh, Curzon! 
I wouldn’t have believed it of you. Was there ever so dis- 
graceful a transaction since the world began?” 

Margery,” cries he, rapturously, what an abominable 
little actress you are! What a fright you gave me. You 
know very well — ” 

‘‘Toil — at last ! Yes, do^vn to the ground,” wrinkling 
up her brows and glancing at him with would-be reproach. 
'^Well! Keep your paltry gown. It is not the fi: 

I have been deceived in you.” 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


81 


You will let me help you tlien?^^ 

Not now, certainly. Not after the base way in which 
you have gone back on your offer. Oh, fy! Mr. Bellew! 
It is my turn now to he ashamed of you. 

But will you?^^ entreats he, pressing the point. 
Margery breaks into low soft laughter. 

No; not I. Don^t he a goose,” she says, lightly, pat- 
ting the back of one of his hands in a surreptitious amused 
sort of way. I think I see myself taking clothes from 
you.” 

To say that Mr. Bellew is disappointed by this answer 
would be to say nothing. 

It is all such humbug, he declares, gloomily. Why 
should a girl take a bracelet from a fellow, and not a 
gown? The bracelet would cost twice as much. And, if 
we were married you would take anything from me. Why 
should a few words make such a difference?” 

A few words very frequently create serious differences 
between people.” 

^^You donT follow me. I was wondering why the 
words of the marriage service read over a woman should 
make her on the instant change all her views. ” 

I donT follow you there, certainly. I donT believe if 
you Avere to read the marriage service over my head every 
day for a Aveek it Avould make me change my opinion of — 
Mrs. Ajnyot, for example.” 

‘^^I Avonder if I shall ever hear that service read over 
you. ” 

^^AVell, I hope so.” 

Margery” — rising to the topmost pinnacle of hope — 
do you mean it?” 

^^Why not?” asks Miss Daryl, laughing. ^‘^Did you 
think I had vowed myself to a life of celibacy?” 

Ah!” says he, rather crushed by her gayety. see. 

I didnT understand. I wonder,” gazing at her anxiously, 
if you Avill ever marry me 

So do I?” returns Miss Daryl, Avith undiminished cheer- 
fulness. The question leaves a good field for interesting 
speculation. ” 

ilellew at this abominable speech instantly changes his 
' ( fov a Arratli that knoAvs no bounds. 

' i - -ry yourself over it,” he says. It is no such 


83 


LADY BRAN-KSMERTJ. 


great matter aftei* all. If not me, another; and if not 
another, some one else.'’^ 

That is a very remarkable speech. 

And you are in a very remarkable humor, it strikes me. 
What have I done to you that you should treat me like 
this?” 

Like what?” 

First, you refuse to go to this ball — simply, I honestly 
believe, because I happened to mention it to you, and you 
saw my heart was set upon your being there. Had Prim- 
rose asked you, I expect your reply would have been Yes, 
not No.” 

To be Lady Primrose do you mean?” 

That will come later on, no doubt. Just at present I 
was alluding to the county ball. ” 

How do you know he didnH ask me to go?” 

Because you are not going. By the bye, what was he 
talking to you about for the last hour?” 

. Of love!” sweetly. 

What r 

‘^^Love,” with gentle reiteration. ^^Pure and simple. 
Platonic love, you will understand.'” 

I do,” grimly. 

1 thought he viewed the subject rather abstrusely, and 
I told him so; but he was very well up in it nevertheless, 
and very interesting too.” 

No doubt. I fear I have been boring you all thi^ime,” 
with elaborate politeness. Let me take you back to the 
others. ” 

I liavenT feared boring you,” says Miss Daryl, be- 
cause ” — she puts back one of the satin curtains delicately, 
and glances down the gallery. Yes, I knew it,” she goes 
on pleasantly. She is still occupying herself very amia- 
bly with Mr. Halkett, so that you would have been rather 
out of it, even if you werenT wasting your time with me. 
Three is trumpery, you know. ” 

This allusion to Mrs. Amyot and his supposed penchant 
for her is treated by Bellew with the supreme disdain it 
merits. 

However^ if you are not tired of being here, and would 
like to try your luck with her again, go ” 

Bather to her astonishment he take^ at h* . ' -uL 
and moves toward the opening of the ci /tait’S. 


LADY BRAKESMER-E. 


83 


And — Curzon — ” she calls to him just as he is dis- 
appearing through them. He turns upon her a smileless 
face and lowering brow. 

Welir 

There is just one other thing/^ letting her pretty head 
droop a little, and plucking with an adorable affectation of 
nervousness at the blood -red flowers in her hand. If 
there is any dancing by and by, will you ask me to dance, 
before you ask — Mrs. Amyot?” • 

She lifts her head and treats him to a very lovely glance. 
It is timorously hopeful, and is therefere distinctly hypo- 
critical — ^because, as she well knows, she neednT hope at 
all. All that sort of thing is done to overflowing by him. 
She lets her large eyes dwell on his with mournful en- 
treaty that some other time, some other day,^^ would 
have excited only laughter in his breast, but just now in- 
censes him. She is looking a great deal too meek, and 

“ On her mouth 

A doubtful smile dwells like a clouded moon 
In a still water.” 

Pshaw!” exclaims he, scornfully, turning on his heel 
and striding down the gallery. 

Miss Daryl gives way to soft laughter. 

I hope it will be a waltz the flrst,” she soliloquizes, 
contentedly. Not one of them can dance as well as he 
does.” 


CHAPTER X. 

“ The past is in many things the foe of mankind: . , 

. , For the past has no hope. ” 

Mrs. Amyot, when the idea of dancing through the 
afternoon is prt)pounded to her, is delighted with it; so is 
Mrs. Vyner, in her languid fashion. So indeed is every- 
body except Aunt Selina! That sour spinster, sitting on 
the one hard, uncomfortable chair the gallery contains — a 
chair never intended for use, being severely ornamental — 
looks frowningly around her, and waits for the luckless 
pause that may give her the opportunity of expressing 
aloud her disapprobation of the amusement in view. 

Halkett, who, from the beginning of their acquaintance. 


84 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 

has been greatly taken by her, now approaches her with a 
winning smile. 

^'You dance, of course. Miss Mumm,^^ he says, with 
beaming artlessness, may I have — 

“Dance.^ NoI^Mnterrupts Miss Mumm, adjusting her 
pince-7iez with an air of stern displeasure. should 

think not, indeed. I wouldn^t be guilty of such lightness. 
She is sixty if a day, and on an average weighs about sev- 
enteen stone. 

^^No, no,^^ says Mr. Halkett, soothingly. ^^Your 
actions, I feel sure, are not open to censure of that sort. 
Whatever you are — with profound and respectful convic- 
tion— I am sure you are not light. 

^^It is a comfort to know that you, sir, at least, have 
measured me justly, returns Aunt Selina, gravely. In 
my time, that abominable romp called dancing was looked 
upon as little less than sin. Decently minded people never 
countenanced it. We were content with more innocent 
amusements, such as, for instance, ^ Puss in the corner,^ 
Blind-man Vbulf,^ ^Kiss in the ring,^ ^Hunt the slipper,^ 
and a variety of other simple sports. 

Mrs. Amyot and Primrose — who happen to be standing 
near | give way to wild mirth, in .which Curzon, after a 
faint struggle, joins heartily. Mr. Halkett, however, 
seems much struck with Miss Mumm^s remarks. 

There is a great deal in what you say,^^ he agrees 
solemnly, ^^a great deal. We might all take it to heart 
with much benefit to ourselves. There are possibilities 
about ^ Kiss in the ring,^ before which the weaker attrac- 
tions of dancing pale. And as for ^Hunt the slipper!^ 
why should we not hunt it now? Mrs. Amyot, will you 
join me in the chase? Miss Mumm, I feel sure, will kindly 
gives us the rules. ” 

Y^ou all sit down on the ground, begitis Aunt Melina, 
carefully, and make a circle. 

“A. mystic circle 

‘^^If anybody is going to make an 5 rthing go round I woiiT 
play,^^ declares Primrose. ‘^lYe had enough of that sort 
of thing in town. It makes me giddy for one thing, and I 
canT endure spirits. They play the very mischief with 
one^s nerves. 

If taken to excess,” assents Halkett, gravely. 


LADY BLAKKSMERL. 


85 


One should throw a little spirit into everything one 
undertakes/-’ puts in Mrs. Amyot, who has been listening. 

But there won’t be any in this game at all, nothing 
bordering on it, will there. Miss Mumm? Not so much as 
a bottle of the harmless, if slightly trying, ginger beer. ” 

Eh?” questions the spinster, who is a little out of it 
by this time. 

^^Lord Primrose,” says Halkett, mildly, ^^is afraid you 
will intoxicate liim. ” 

Don’t mind him. Miss Mumm,” interposes Primrose. 

Nothing .of the sort, give you my word. Was alluding 
merely to that horrid juggling system they are carrying on 
now of showing up one’s grandmother after she has lain 
quiet in her grave for half a century. ” 

What are you going to do? To dance?” asked Lady 
Branksmere, coming up to the group. 

Well, that is what we should like to do,” answers Mrs. 
Vyner, pathetically. ^‘^But Miss Mumm has terrified us 
all. She says,” demurely, It is very wicked of us even 
to long for such a godless amusement. She has taken 
hold of Mr. Halkett’s conscience and converted him, and 
now we don’t know what to do.” 

Is he the keeper of your conscience?” asks Muriel, with 
tiev low trama7ite laugh. Poor Mr. Halkett!” She lets 
her glance fall suddenly on her aunt, who is looking grimly 
from one to the other, I hope. Aunt Selina,” she says, 
with cold meaning, ‘^that you will try to reconcile yourself 
to our little immoralities.” 

No, Muriel! I shall returns Miss Mumm, austere- 
ly rising from her seat. shall never permit myself to 

grow lukewarm in a good cause. I have my principles, 
and I shall stick to them, whatever might be the conse- 
quences. Good-evening,^ my dear. I shall not stay tb 
countenance the vulgar exhibition you and your friends are 
about to make of yourselves. I shall avoid even the very 
appearance of evil. ” 

Muriel shrugs her shoulders. 

^‘1 am disappointed in you!” continues the spinster. 
Lady Branksmere unfurls her fan and sighs profoundly. 
Li truth, she is feeling bored to the last degree. ‘‘^I con- 
ceive it will be mjr^diity to invite you and your friends to 
liarren Court in yday or two, and I hope you will all come 


86 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


to US. That is, to me and "Sir Mutius — looking ungra- 
ciously around. 

We shall be charmed/^ says Muriel, languidly. 

You will find it dull!'" remarks Miss Mumm, severely. 
^^Let that be understood. Dull, but," with withering 
force, ‘‘decent!” 

AVithout further ado she takes herself off, and a uni- 
versal peal of laughter follows on the last echo of her foot- 
steps. 

Annie, will you sing us something w^hilst they are ar- 
ranging the things — putting the foot-stools to one side.^" 
asks Muriel. 

Lady Anne Branksmere, who is never happier than 
when her fingers are on the keys, moves briskly to the 
piano. 

^‘^She sings?" asks Mrs. Vyner, vaguely. 

^^Oh, charmingly. Not magnificently or loudly, you 
know; but with feeling and all that sort of thing," says 
Primrose. “ Tell you a fellow who sings well, too. Staines. 
Like a bird, he sings. Very hard to make him warble. I 
expect he thinks it wise to make himself rather scarce in 
that way. Adds to his popularity — see?'^ 

He would want to add something to it; by all accounts, 
it is thin!" whispers Mrs. Amyot. 

Eh? Can't say, I'm sure," says Lord Primrose, rather 
puzzled, to whom Staines is more or less a stranger. 
“ Thought he was rather a fancy article, run after a good 
deal and that, eh?" 

Meantime Lady Anne's exquisite notes are falling on the 
air. It is a little Neapolitan song she sings, soft, low, 
gay; and it xsets the pulses laughing even before one gets 
fco the end of it. Every one is very effusive when she rises 
from the piano, and compliments, sincere as they are 
pretty, are bandied to and fro. ^ 

^‘'Captain Staines, will you sing to us now?" says Mrs. 
Amyot, suddenly, who had been dying to make him sing 
ever since Primrose had told her he was chary of giving 
his voice to the world. 

“1 think not," returns Staines, smiling at her. ^^My 
efforts would hardly please you, I imagine, after what we 
have just heard, and besides — " 

He pauses, and the smile dies from his lips, which have 
grown grave and thoughtful. 


LADY BKAKKSMDRE. 87 

Besides what?” 

Simply that I believe I have forgotten how, that^s all. 
I had almost forgotten that I once imd to sing until to- 
day.” *His voice has sunk a little. Muriel, who is stand- 
ing near, looks quickly at him. 

Let to-day then be the commencement of a new epoch 
in your lifers history, persists Mrs. Amyot, gayly. ‘^Re- 
turn to your old delights. Give place to song. ” 

To go back upon our lives is denied us,” says Captain 
Staines, gently. And to most of us the past is a sealed 
hook to which we dare not revert. I am sorry I can not 
please you in this matter, but,” he turns his gaze suddenly 
upon Lady Branksmere, and his eyes seem to burn into 
hers and compel her regard in return, music has died 
within me. 

Through dearth of encouragement, perhaps,” says 
Lady Branksmere, coldly, reluctantly, and as one driven to 
speech against her will by the steady glance of his eyes. If 
you were to try— to make an effort — to recover your lost 
power, perhaps you might succeed.” 

^^My lost power!” repeats he in a peculiar tone. He 
looks down, and then continues softly, Well, I will try, 
if that is your desire.” 

‘'‘Not mine — Mrs. Amyot%” says Lady Branksmere, 
haughtily, with subdued but imperious anger in her tone. 

“Oh, yes, mine certainly,” laughs Mrs. Amyot, joy- 
ously. 

The group at the piano divide and make room for him; 
and presently his fingers, with an uncertainty that is rich 
in promise, travel over the notes, striking a chord here and 
there, until at last the spirit moves him as it were and he 
bursts into song. 

His voice is not powerful, but clear and elastic, and for 
exquisite twibre could hardly be equaled. The words fall 
from him with a curious distinctness,, and there is some- 
thing about his whole style so sympatliiqiie that it touches 
one, and holds one spell-bound. He sings too with a zest, 
a hr io, that startles, even as it charms and creates the long- 
ing for more: 

“ Est-il vrai qu’a tes genoux 
Je te (lis un jour jc t’aime? 

J’ai rSvd qii’alors toi-mSme. 

Me redis ce mot si doux. 


88 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


All, ce n’est pas vrai! Ah, non, ' , 

Ce n’est pas vrai — non — non! 

J’ai r6ve qu’alors toi-m8me 
Me redis ce mot si doux.” 

There is a passion in his voice as he ends, that quivers 
through the room and the hearts of his hearers. Lady 
Anne, a true lover of music, is profoundly touched, and 
stands gazing at the singer with tears in her eyes. The 
others are all impressed more or less as their souls are 
capable of quickening, and Mrs. Daryl, being amongst 
those of the lower class, has time to turn an almost invol- 
untary glance on Lady Branksmere. 

Muriel is standing w^ell within the shelter of a velvet 
'portiere^ but her face is in the light. It is pale, rigid — 
hardly a living face, so white it is, and still — hardly flesh 
and blood at all, but rather the mere simulacrum of a 
breathing woman. Her hands, hanging loosely before her, 
are tensely clasped; she seems to have lost all memory of 
where she is, and of those around her. A tremulous ray 
from the departing sun falling through the painted 
window opposite lies like a still caress upon her lowered 
lids. 

The shadow of a terrible grief is desolating her beautiful 
face. Some cruel thought— a crushing remembrance — 
hitherto subdued, seems now to have sprung into fresh life, 
and to have reached a colossal height. That music has 
undone her quite. Is she thinking of the singer only, and 
how he had in the old days sung it to her again and again? 
Or is she grieving only for the days when he had sung it — 
Avlien she was free, with all the world before her where to 
choose? Mrs. Billy, gazing at her with reflective eyes that 
have a kindly sorrow in their soft depths, can not decide 
which. 

Somebody drags a chair with a little rasping noise along 
the polished floor, and Lady Branksmere starts as though 
violently awakened. In an incredibly short moment, as it 
seems to Wilhelmina, she is herself again. She draws a 
quick breath that is too nervous to be a sigh, and steps 
with a slow, dignified motion, into the very center of the 
gallery. 

Thank you. It is a charming song,^^ she says, indif- 
ferently, turning her gaze full on Captain Staines. ^^I al- 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


89 


ways tMnk you are better worth listening to than most 
people. Now, for your waltz/^ smiling at Mrs. Amyot. 

She seats herself at the vacant piano, and lets the first 
bars of the last brilliant waltz fioat through the room. 


CHAPTER XL 

“ I will not let thee sleep, nor eat, nor drink’ 

But I will ring thee such a piece of chiding. 

Thou shalt confess the troubled sea more calm.” 

The Dowager Lady Branksmere^s love to Lady Branks- 
mere, and she will be pleased to receive her this after- 
noon.'''’ The message sounds more like a command than a 
wish, and Muriel, with a little resigned shrug of her shoul- 
ders, throws aside her brush, and prepares to obey it. 

I wish I could go with you — she is interesting, as fos- 
sils usually are — but the fact is she abhors me. I am too 
large, too healthy, too fieshy for her,^’ laughs Lady Anne, 
wheeling round on the piano-stool ; I look out of place in 
that ghastly old room of hers. ” 

I caiiT see that you are more robust than Madame von 
Thirsk. Yet she tolerates her," says Muriel, with a keen 
glance at her sister-in-law. 

She adores her," corrects Lady Anne. There is some 
tremendous bond between them; I donT qfiite know how 
the friendship arose, but it began about seven years ago, 
about the year poor Arthur was killed. " She always alludes 
to her dead husband as poor Arthur," and is always very 
kindly in her mention of him, though perhaps she had 
hardly reason to be proud of him when he was alive. To 
her, however, he had always been fastidiously attentive, 
and his memory lives strong within her still. You know 
Arthur was her favorite. He was the eldest, and it was 
only by a luckless chance that Branksmere came in for the 
title. You kno^ all about that duel!" She is talking con- 
fidentially to Muriel, and now bends over the table near, so 
as to make her lowered voice heard. 

I knew he had been killed in a duel; that is all." 

Branksmere, George, your husband, was with him at 
the time. He, George, hinted to me that it was a quarrel 
about money; but he was so distressed that I knew the 


90 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


wretched affair had arisen out of some fault of poor Ar- 
thur^’s. He was rather wild, you see, and had an ungovern- 
able temper. From what I could drag out of Branksmere, 
who was most reticent about it, I should say poor Arthur 
lost himself over some affair in a billiard-saloon, and grossly 
insulted the man by whom he believed he had been cheated. 
She pauses. ^^He was shot dead,^^ she says, in a low 
whisper, tapping her fingers nervously upon the table. / 
‘^^How terrible — for you.^^ 

Yes, terrible. But, do you know, now I can think of 
it quite calmly. It all happened so long ago, you see. Seven 
years is a tremendous space nowadays. Yes, it all hap- 
pened the year madame came to the castle. Poor Arthur 
was killed about the beginning of the year, and she came 
here about six months afterward. I remember it perfectly. 
She was a friend of some people Branksmere knew in Tus- 
cany. 

She seems to have given up Tuscany and made her 
home in England^ — in Branksmere, rather. 

Yes. I shouldnT mind that, if I were you. She is 
very good to the old lady, and useful when the dowager 
has one of her troublesome days. Going to her now?'’^ 

k wish you could come with me.^^ 

I shouidnT be welcome. 

Would I do?^'’ asks Mrs. Amyot amiably. 

I am afraid you would be worse than Lady Anne,” 
says Muriel, Smiling. You are too bright, too airy. It 
is only ghostly bony people like me she can endure. I shall 
give your kind regrets to Lady Branksmere, however, if 
you like.” 

What a tiresome number of Lady Branksmeres there 
are,” remarks Mrs. Vyner, idly. 

Too many,” acquiesces Lady Anne. There is the 
dowager, there is me, there is Muriel. I felt so horrified 
at the idea of being placed as No. 2 amongst the dowa- 
gers that I went back to my old name, and became, if not 
Lady Anne Hare, at least Lady Anne. A safe return, 
Muriel,” as the present Lady Branksmere moves toward 
the door. 

"^Then I won’t do?” asks Mrs. Amyot, pathetically. 

Yes, you will for me, admirably,” says Halkett, who 
has just stepped in through the window. So take heart, 
and a tennis racket at the same time. We are having such 


LADY BRANKSMEKE. 91 

a game out here. Come one — come all of you — and let^s 
make an afternoon of it. 

Muriel crossing the hall slowly — ^heing in no haste to 
gain the chamber where the old dame lies in solitary state 
— comes suddenly face to face with Captain Staines. A 
longing to go by without waiting to exchange with him a 
word of civility presses sore on Lady Branksmere, but the 
doing so would be an act of discourtesy, as they two are 
circumstanced, so that, perforce, she turns a coldly smil- 
ing face to his. Her heart is beating rapidly, almost to 
suffocation. It js the first moment since that happy, far- 
away past that she has found herself alone with him. 

You should go out; the others are on the tennis- 
ground,^^ she says, in a dull, stifled sort of way, keeping 
up the stereotyped smile by a supreme effort. She nods to 
him, and goes quickly onward. 

^^One moment. Lady Branksmere,” exclaims he, in a 
low tone, arresting her footsteps. One only. What have 
I done that you should avoid me.^^^ 
do not avoid you,"’"’ icily. 

I fear you do. I fear my presence here is a matter of 
dissatisfaction to you.^^ 

His eyes are bent moodily upon the ground, a settled 
melancholy is darkening his handsome face. If it is a 
fictitious melancholy, it is very well done, indeed. 

^^But I have arranged about that,'’^ he goes on, gloomily. 

A telegram to-morrow will rid you of me. I shall leave 
as suddenly as I came.^^ 

I beg you will not do this thing. I assure you there is 
no reason why you should,^-’ says Lady Branksmere, 
haughtily. . 

Her proud lips have taken a still prouder curve, and she 
toys with the fan she holds in a rather rapid way, that be- 
tokens anger, only half concealed. 

There is a reason,^'’ breaks out Staines, in a low tone, 
full of suppressed passion. ^^If yo7c are dead to the past, 
I am not. I know now I should never have come here — 
now that it is too late. 

And why not here?^^ demands she, with flashing eyes. 
The words fall from her angrily, impulsively; even as 
they ring in her ears she would have given worlds to recall 
them. The question is hers. She has laid herself open to 


LADY BKANKSMEEE. 


9^3 

the answer; she has in a manner pledged herself to listen 
to it. A gleam of triumph shoots into his blue eyes. 

Because you are here/'’ he says^ slowly. Need I have 
said that? Did you not know my answer? I was mad 
when I accepted your — Lord Branksmere^’s — invitation, but 

could not refuse it. But now that I have come — now 
that I have seen — ^his voice sinks almost to a whisper — 

when all the old sweet memories force themselves back 
upon me, I feel I dare not remain. 

You will please yourself about that, of course,'’'’ an- 
swers Muriel, coldly. She turns away as if to pursue her 
course upstairs. • 

To go will not please me,^^ declares he, hurriedly. 

“Then stay,'’'’ indilferently. Her tone is admirably 
calm, hut the hand that holds her fan is trembling, and he 
sees it. 

“ Are you a stone?” he cries, vehemently. “Have you 
altogetlter forgotten?” 

Lady Branksmere pauses abruptly, and turns to him a 
marble face. 

“Altogether!” she says, stoutly. 

‘‘ I won'’t believe it,” protests he. “ What! in this little 
space of time to have all, all blotted out ! Nay, I defy you 
to say it from your heart. Now and again some thought 
from out the sweet past must rise within your breast. Yet 
love could never have been to you what it was to me. You 
wronged me, Muriel, as only a woman can wrong a man. 
You betrayed me.” 

“ 19 ” 

“You. AVas I the one who first broke faith? Have I 
married? And now, standing here togetlier face to face 
once more, you tell me I have no longer a place even in 
your thoughts, that it is nothing to you whether I go or 
stay?” 

liis last words are a question. 

“ Nothing,” returns she, slowly. And then, as though 
suddenly mindful of her duties as a hostess, she bestows 
upon him a faint, wintery, society smile. “ I shall never- 
theless be very pleased if you will stay with us for a little 
while,” she says, languidly. 

“ 1 accept your invitation,” declares Staines, suddenly — 
almost defiantly, and turning away, strides impatiently 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 93 

down a side corridor — to find himself all hut in the arms of 
Mme. von Thirsk! 


CHAPTER XIL 

Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul; 

And there I see such hlack and grained spots. 

As will not leave their tinct.” 

What has she seen? What heard? There has been 
no moment given him in which to recover his equanimity. 
So that his open perplexity is apparent to her. It appears 
to amuse her. Looking him fairly in the face, she 
breaks into low laughter that has a touch of contemjit 
in it. 

Well met/^ she says, airily. 

That of course, if you allow it,^^ returns he, gallantly. 
He has recovered himself by this time, and now awaits her 
attack, if it is to be made. He has studied Mme*. von 
Thirsk from a distance for the last year or so, and has dui^ 
ing the few days spent now at Branksmere with her come 
to one or two conclusions about her. 

Yet you scarcely seemed overjoyed to me a moment 
since, smiles she in her swift, curious, fashion. 

Natural enough. You startled me. I might have 
hurt you coming round that corner. By the bye, I nearly 
ran you down, didnT I?^^ carelessly, but cautiously. 

Very nearly. 

^"Not a nice thing to be run to earth, eh?" says Staines, 
meaningly, with a bold look at her. But you see I was 
in a hurry, and didnT expect you would have taken up a 
position in this solitary spot." Again she is aware that he 
is watching her. 

You seemed in hot haste, indeed," returns she, still 
with that inexplicable smile that is momentarily exasperat- 
ing him. Quite as if you were running away from some- 
thing. What was it?" glancing at him from under her 
sleepy lids. K second disappointment?" 

Staines^ eyes contract. 

Madame," replies he, deliberately, you speak in par- 
ables. A second disappointment implies a first. You al- 
lude to — ?" 

.ever half-formed plan madame had in her head, 
la ape and color now. She leans forward, elevates 


94 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


her shoulders^ and makes a little graceful gesture toward 
the hall where Staines has j ust had his interview with Lady 
Branksmere. 

'^Madame is beautiful!” she whispers^ throwing out her 
exquisitely shaped hands with an expressive movement. 
Then, with a complete change of manner that enrages him 
even more than her affected gayety — ^“^Ah! believe it or 
not as you will — I have indeed felt sorry for you,” she mur- 
murs, with a glance full of deepest sympathy. 

‘‘ ‘ A fellow feeling,^” quotes Staines, with an ugly sneer, 

^ makes us wondrous kind.^ My disappointment, as you 
call it, was hardly greater than yours. Seven years is a 
long time in which to strive only to be at last — undoneV^ 

Her color fades. She steps back involuntarily, and a 
dangerous light creeps into her dark eyes. 

Come! That was hardly fair of me,” laughs Staines, 
in a conciliatory way. But it was your own fault — ^you 
led me up to it, you know. You shouldnT bring the war 
iifto the enemy^’s camp unless you are prepared for reprisals. 
Sorry if I appeared unchivalrous, but you would have it, 
you know.” 

^^You mean — ?” exclaims madame, forcing the words 
from between her clinched teeth. 

Pshaw! Nothing to make you look so tragical,” re- 
turns Staines, moving a step or two. Madame following, 
lays a firm hand upon his arm. 

^^You.domot leave this,” she declares, fiercely, until 
you have explained what it was you meant.” 

That Branksmere was as good a fcirti as there is in 
England,” retorts he, contemptuously. Take it then, as 
you insist on it. ” 

You know nothing — nothing ” cries she, with an angry 
sob. All the passionate fire of love that has been consum- 
ing her throughout these weary hopeless years springs into 
arms at this slight that has been cast upon it. W ere he, 
Branksmere, the veriest beggar that crawled the earth her 
whole soul would have gone out to him, as it went out on 
that day when — when — 

She comes back to the present hour to find Staines is 
talking to her in a low, earnest tone. 

Why should we quarrel over the fact that we have each 
made a discovery of the other’s secret? Let us be comrades 
rather, A common grievance such as ours,” with a short 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 95 

laugh, should have the effect of creating between us a link 
of sympathy/^ 

He holds out his hand to her as though desirous at once 
of forging this link, but madame declines to see it. He 
comes a degree closer to her. 

‘‘ Think," he whispers, impressively, whether I can be 
of no service to you in this matter?" 

^‘^In what way, sir?" 

That I leave to your woman^s wit to answer," returns 
he, with a half-insolent uplifting of his brows. 

She is silent, her eyes bent upon the ground. That she 
is deeply pondering on his words is plain to liim. Very 
slowly the warm color recedes from her lips and brow, and 
a heavy frown settles upon her broad forehead. Her 
breath comes from her heavily, and her mouth is com- 
pressed, It is evident that she is the victim of a fierce 
struggle now taking place within her. She is in many ways 
an unscrupulous woman — a woman of strong passions, ca- 
pable of knowing a love powerful as death, or a hatred as 
keen and lasting as that love — ^yet now the thought that is 
presenting itself to her in all its naked hideousness appalls 
and disgusts her. 

You canT make up your mind, then?" suggests he, 
mockingly. Perhaps you think I overestimate my pow- 
ers of usefulness." 

I donT doubt you there." She lifts her head 
and looks at him steadily. Her eyes seem to burn into his. 

And yet you shrink — ^you hesitate. I tell you there is 
no need for compunction. They are less than nothing to 
each other," says the tempter, slowly. 

It is of him alone, I think," she breaks in, vehemently. 
As for her, let her go. I owe her nothing but hatred for 
a studied course of insolenQe since the first hour we met. 
But there is his happiness to be considered. " 

She has thrown off the mask a good deal, and in the ex- 
citement of the moment seems to feel no shame in baring 
her heart to this man. 

Pshaw!" scornfully. Is it not open to all the world 
to read between the lines? It was a caprice — a mere pass- 
ing fancy on his part — a desire for a pretty face, of which 
he has already tired. The fancy, the caprice, are dead." 

l am not so sure of that. If I zuere — " she pauses. 

You would feel more free to act? . Why, look into it. 


96 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


as it stands. Would a man who loved, neglect the .object 
of that love, as he does her? Would he deliberately and 
openly betray in a thousand ways — with a meaning glance 
at her — his preference for another?” 

There is no such preference as that of which you hint,” 
returns she, gloomily. 

There you wrong — yourself. Yet, granting you are 
right, does that make it any the easier for you to prove his 
\o\Q ioTher? When does he seek her side? When does a 
tender glance, a kindly word pass between them? Has 
he even forced a smile for her?” 

No — And yet — ” she hesitates, grows suddenly silent, 
and Staines, noting the quick change in her mobile face, 
qdays his trump card. 

Had he even the last lingering remnants of a worn- 
out love for her,” he says with cold contempt, would he 
have invited me here?” 

He was ignorant of your former relations with her. 
He knew nothmg,” cries she, eagerly. Nothing! I have 
it from his own lips. ” 

Then he lied to you,” declared Staines, coolly, giving 
voice to his falsehood in a clear, distinct tone. For ho 
had the whole story from my lips, before ever I accej)ted 
his invitation. Some absurdly quixotic impulse drove me 
at the moment to mention it. ” 

Is that the truth?” asks she, in a terribly eager way. 
The question is almost a whisper, but so wild, so intense, 
that it thrils through him. She is ‘looking at him with 
her large glittering eyes as though she would read his very 
soul. 

^^If you doubt me, ash liimf returns he, boldly. 

She sighs deeply, and throws up her head as if suffocat- 
ing, and. he knows he has won the day, and gained an ally 
wlio will — who shall be — of incalculable service to him in 
the gaining of the abominable end he has in view. With 
madame, indeed, the struggle is at an end. A gleam from 
within is lighting up her dark expressive face — a devilish 
gleam. That Staines should know her secret is bitter, but 
that she should suspect it— she! If treated with coldness 
now, may he not at any moment betray her, and to that 
woman of all others? No, that shall never be! She will 
enter into a compact with him, and so purchase his silence. 
As for the rest, for the future it will reveal itself. And if 


LADY BRANKSMLRE. 


97 


a fall sliould follow on the footsteps of that haughty spirit, 
why, why — The cruel gleam upon her face deepens in 
intensity, yet, as though prompted by her good angel to 
one last throb of compunction, she turns to Staines. 

You love her?” she asks, hurriedly. 

I have not asked yoi(, if you love retorts he, 

coldly. 

True.” She winces a little. 

It is then a bond between us, to help each other when 
we can?” demands he. 

A bond — ^yes. But remember I pledge myself to noth- 
ing,” answers she, thoughtfully. 

No explanations follow. There is no counsel or advice. 
Mme. von Thirsk, as she sweeps slowly away from him 
down the corridor, does not so much as cast a parting 
glance upon the man with whom she has entered into a 
most unholy alliance. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

** The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind 

And in my face deep furrows eld hath plight; 

My head hespent with hoary frost I find, 

And by mine eye the crow his claw doth wright, 
Delight is laid abed, and pleasure past; 

No sun now shines, clouds have all overcast.’' 

Meanwhile Muriel, going slowly up the stairs to the 
dowager^s room, feels as though her feet are clad with 
leaden wings. If she had been victorious in the late inter- 
view with the man who had once been so much to her, it 
was certainly a victory that cost her dear. However 
strongly she had held herself at the time, she now feels 
faint-hearted enough and utterly unstrung. Alas! what 
sweet hours he had recalled, when life meant hberty and 
love, and she was Muriel only, untitled, unshackled, free. 

And that last accusation of his had smitten her sore. 
H(ul she wronged him? Had she betrayed? Her mind 
wanders back in a true line to the old days, the old glad 
moments, when she had strayed with him through meads 
and flowering tracts, made rich with autumn^s dying per- 
fumes; days when she had thought of him as the one man 
in all the world for her. If she had then shrunk from a 

4 


98 


LADY BRAN-KSMEEE. 


life of poverty, sweetened even though it might be by love, 
why, so had he! 

He had spoken much of the self-same wondrous love in 
those past hours, had toyed with the idea of marriage; had 
presented many a pretty picture of wedded happiness to 
her inward view, but always with a reservation. As her 
mind now gathers about that past time, there comes to her 
an even fuller conviction than of old that there had always 
inextricably mingled with the adoration a tenderly ex- 
pressed regret, a half- veiled renunciation of the joys por- 
trayed, an unspoken yet clearly conveyed reluctance to 
‘‘ cast his all upon the die. 

To her, too — bred in it as she was — ^poverty had seemed 
then all but a crime. She had felt every word he had 
hinted rather than said, so keenly — had so abhorred the 
idea of dwelling forever in the ungilded paths whereon her 
childhood’s feet had trod, that she had hardl}'' paused then 
to tell herself that he was coimting the cost as no true lover 
should. But now, to-day, when he has cast the charge in 
her teeth, her whole soul rises up in arms, and she defends 
herself to herself with passionate vehemence. 

At least she had not been the more mercenary of the 
two. They had been quits so far, and when after her en- 
gagement to Branksmere that wild letter of upbraiding 
had come to her from the man who she believed 
would understand and acquiesce in her decision — whose 
own doctrines she felt she had imbibed and was now act- 
ing up to — she had been struck with a sudden fear, but 
had failed to comprehend. 

She had quailed indeed when she thought of years filled 
with sordid care, but it was he who had carefully pointed 
out to her those cares. No earnest pleading had been 
used to give her strength to endure for dear love’s sake 
alone. Even that letter, so replete with angry reproach, 
had contained no entreaty to cast aside her allegiance to 
Lord Branksmere, and fling herself with honest abandon- 
ment into her lover’s arms. Some hidden strain of knowl- 
edge whispers to her that she would not now be Lady 
Branksmere had Staines been stancher, more persistent in 
his wooing; that there might have been a moment when 
she would have counted the world well lost for what is now 
lost to her forever! , 

There had been no formal parting between them — only 


f. 

J 


LADY BRAiq'KSMERE. 99 

a last scene, that had not been spoken of him as final, 
though to Muriel it had seemed so. Still no farewell had 
been spoken, beyond an ordinary one that breathed of 
fresh meetings in the future — and that night Staines went 
up to town for an indefinite period, and next morning 
Branksmere had arrived; Branksmere, who had proposed 
to her the year before and been refused, and who now knelt 
at her feet again beseeching a kinder answer. He had 
sworn he loved her, and she had believed him. 

At this point in her meditations Muriel drops into a low 
cushioned seat in one of the staircase windows and laughs 
aloud, softly but with an indescribable bitterness. Yes! 
she had believed him. He appeared to her suddenly as a 
way out of her difiiculty. A steady barrier should, and 
must, be placed between her and Staines forever; Branks- 
mere should be that barrier! That she could not endure 
an existence bald of worldly comforts she had been led to 
believe by subtlest means; and now left to itself, with no 
strength from without on which to lean, the poor reed 
broke! — she accepted Branksmere. 

And now? She rises wearily from her seat in the great 
painted window, and goes on her unwilling way to the dow- 
ager ^s apartments. How, she has neither lover^s nor hus- 
band^ s love! One she can not, the other she dare not, 
grasp. Hothing is left her but the filthy- lucre for which 
she has paid away all the priceless gladness of her fresh 
young life. Alas! what Dead Sea fruit it seems within her 
mouth. 

She shivers a little as she reaches the heavy hanging 
curtain that hides the entrance to the corridor that leads 
not only to the dowager^s apartments, but to those of Mme. 
von Thirsk. She stops short, and clasps her hands to- 
gether as though very cold, then pushes back the curtain 
and enters the dreary corridor within. Beyond her lies 
the other curtain that hides the large door that leads to 
madame^s own rooms; those rooms that no one may enter 
save madame herself, and — 

She draws a heavy breath. A sense of suffocation weighs 
her down. It is the first time she has been here since that 
afternoon when Mrs. Stout had escorted her through the 
upper parts of the house in the character of cicerone, and 
the- remembrance of that hour hes now with a deadly 
weight on Muriel, She rouses herself, however, and turn- 


100 LADY BRANKS^RE. 

ing resolutely toward old LadyT^nksmere^s room, knocks 
gently at the door. 

It is opened to he# by a tall, gaunt woman, with a pe- 
culiarly bloodless face, and eyes deeply set and colorless, 
that may once have been pale blue, but are now almost as 
white as the balls that surround them. She is a woman 
advanced in years, but specially muscular, with long, 
lithe fingers — bloodless, too — and a length of jaw that sug- 
gests the idea that the mind is as strong as the body. 

She drops back a step or so in a respectful fashion as 
Muriel enters, and then returns to her station beside the 
bed. 

The room is semi-lighted, the curtains being closely 
drawn, as if to kill all remembrance of the blessed sun- 
shine that reigns without. A smell of mold pervades the 
air, a dull, dampy, sickly odor, suggestive of the idea that 
the windows have been hermetically sealed for many years. 
Some oak chairs, black with age, and elaborately carved, 
line the walls, that are painted a dull ocher; and a bureau, 
oak too, and blackened by time, and grim and uncompro- 
mising in appearance, reaches half-way up to the ceiling, 
which is vaulted. 

A sullen fire is burning in the huge grate, and a black 
cat, gaunt as Mrs. Brookes — who had opened the door for 
Muriel — sits upon the hearth-rug, staring at the dickering 
flames with an expression of diabolical malignancy upon 
its ebon face. As Muriel advances, this brute turns its 
head slowly round and spits at her in a malevolent fash- 
ion. Muriel, with a slight shudder, shrinks away from it, 
and Mrs. Brookes again comes forward. 

Be quiet, then, my beauty, my sweetheart!^ ^ she mur- 
murs, absurdly, to the creature, that, only half-appeased 
by her soothing, stands erect and arches its monstrous 
back, and follows MurieTs movements with its baleful eyes, 
green as emeralds. 

The dull flames emit a duller light; through the closed 
curtains a feeble ray is struggling; Muriel, peering anxious- 
>ly into this obscurity, finds at last the occupant of the room 
who has desired her presence. 

In a huge four-poster of enormous dimensions, hung 
with curtains of dingy satin — that perchance a hundred 
years ago was bright and fresh — lies a figure, a mere shell 
of our poor humanity! A wizened, aged, witch-like face 


LAD'T BRANKSMEBE. tOl 

looks out from the pillows^ a face that hut for the eyes— 
which are supernaturally large and brilliant — migiit vveil 
be mistaken for a piece of parchment, and would jTob I >17 
have gone unnoticed altogether in the twilight f loom of 
the apartment. These eyes burning with their inwajv hi. 
convey to Muriel the sudden fancy that they have hc-in • i 
costuming furnaces which have reduced the atteiiiuf c 
frame to its present state of emaciation, yet have had th 
power to keep the life within it all these intermiiu ok. 
years. 

Two gaunt hands, delicately formed, but inhnnian in 
aspect, and more like claws than hands, are resting on (i\e 
faded but gorgeous counterpane; every now and tlien they 
pluck nervously, spasmodically, at the air. The lips, 
fleshless and drawn, fail to conceal the toothless gums 
within; and the scant and hoary locks, brushed tightly back 
from the forehead in the fashion of a past era, are bound 
by a funereal band of black velvet that serves to heighten 
the ghastliness of the half-living picture, ahd betray more 
openly the skinny proportions of the weird old face. 

Repelled, yet fascinated, Muriel gazes upon her husband^s 
grandmother! Although this is not her first introduction 
to her, she now sustains a severe shock as she looks again 
upon this melancholy wreck of what once was one of nat- 
iire^’s brightest efforts — this belle of a bygone day; this 
poor spent frame now grown repulsive, that the tond' 
should long ago have sought and gained I 

The dowager seems unaware of her presence uniil ?d7's. 
Brookes, stooping over her, lays her hand upon her should^ r 

“It is Lady Branksmere, madam. She has coj.-e tc 
see you — at your request. 

“ Ay — ay. I know. I am sick of her name,^^ rtd uru.s 
the old woman, querulously. “ There are so mj'.iiy os 
them. My Lady Branksmere of to-day — and she of 3 ; -tet'- 
day — and she of the day before! Why donT. some * m 
die — eh?^^ She looks up at her attendant, with sen:! ■ i..- 
dignation, as though blaming her for the longevity ol tlu: 
women of her own house. Though who should dui at 
first but she herself? 

“ Eh— eh?^" she persists, striking Mrs. Brookes witi' her 

palsied hand. ^ 

“ I donH know, madam. Time will do it, perhaps, re- 
turns the attendant, doubtfully. Time, it seems to lier. 


LADY BRANKSM^TRE. 


102 

has been long time dancing attendance on the uncanny 
old ])er30ii in the bed, 

“ Slaves count time/^ quarrels the miserable wreck, va- 
cantly. ‘‘ It has nothing to do with us. AVho spoke of 
y Lady Branksmere? Was it you, Brookes? You should 
better. She will never be my lady now — no — ^never!'^ 
‘ Hush, madam — 

• ' Ihit what of her — the little one? She that ought to 
-VC boon my lady, but wasn^t. AVhat of her, Brookes? 
(doming to me? Tell me, woman, or ITl strike you!^^ 
' N to-day, madam,'’'' soothingly. 

' Sliv; should, then. Memory is quick within me. All, 
all comes back to me to-day. Seven years ago, Brookes. 
Seven years. My poor little boy! my poor fellow!^'' 

She is beginning to ramble hopelessly. Her claw-like 
hands are moving convulsively, and her eager, feverish 
eyes are sparkling. 

Your ladyship will excuse her,'’^ entreats Mrs. Brookes, 
turning to Muriel with a sedate courtesy. “ It is not one 
of madam ^s good days.*’^ She courtesys again when she has 
finished this apology, but not a muscle of her face stirs. Is 
she really concerned, or too accustomed, perhaps, to know 
any nervousness? 

“ What is that you are saying, Brookes ?^^ cries the dow- 
ager. tfii/’illy. “ And who is that lurking behind the cur- 
tains? Let Ym stand forward! H^ye hear? What are 
liioy lading for, eh?” Here, catching sight of Muriel, 
mciijcry again (dull though her mind is with regard to 
prtsciit things) takes fire, and she knows her. Old habits 
remm to her — old dignity. It is quite wonderful to see 
the ^vav' in which she draws herself up and bends her stiff 
old t odytto the young woman, who is now the queen reg- 
na* * t of the house of Branksmere. 

‘‘ fV 0 t do an old woman much honor. I am very pleased 
0 s-;e v\;u, my dear,^^ she says proudly but sweetly, with 
he Tull return of the grand old manner that had been hers 
naif a century ago. ‘‘ Pray be seated, Brookes! a chair for 
my Lady Branksmere. It is a gracious action of yours, 
my ,r, to grant the dying a few minutes out of your 
yom.g lifeB^ 

11' , alas! the vital spark grows dull again, and returns 

to L id flickering that is but the prelude of its' death. 
The U I’cli of strength the worn-out brain had received dies 
/ 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


103 


away, and stooping forward the old woman twines her bony 
fingers round Muriers white wrist and breaks into futile 
mumblings — mutterings born of the one thought that 
clings to her tired mind. 

“ Have you seen her yet? The little thing in her white 
gown?^^ she asks, mouthing and grinning horribly. “ Such 
a pretty creature. It isnT you I^m talking of, you will 
know, because you are Lady Branksmere, and slie isnT. 
She can^t be now, they tell me. But she was the prettiest 
little soul, and all in white — in white. 

“ Recollect yourself, madam whimpers Mrs. Brookes, 
severely, bending over the bed and laying her hand, with a 
warning pressure, upon the skeleton'’ s arm. It may have 
been a rather strenuous pressure, because the old woman 
breaks instantly into a feeble whimpering. 

“Go away, Brookes. You hurt me. Go away, I say. 
Nobody understands me but Thekla. Where is Thekla? 
Ah! she knows the little one!^^ 

She pauses and gazes vacantly at Muriel. Then on cl) 
again her dying intellect so far revives that her mind recurs 
vividly once more to the subject that had filled her before 
Brookes^ interruption. 

“ Thekla knows ! — she will tell you!^^ she whispers, lean- 
ing toward Muriel, who has grown very pale. The old 
woman^s strange words — the evident desire of the attend- 
ant to silence her, have suggested to her strong confirma- 
tion of the doubts that are already at work within her. 
Seven years ago madame had said! Seven years ago was 
Madame von Thirsk a pale, slender maiden? Did she 
wear a white gown? Was it she who should have been 
Lady Branksmere in her — Muriefs place? 

She leans back in her chair and tries to concentrate her 
thoughts, but she is unnerved and unstrung, and the effort 
to analyze her fears is beyond her. Her meeting with 
Staines, and his unjust accusation, have upset her more 
than she was quite aware, and now this interview with the 
dowager has brought matters to a climax. 

A sensation of faintness creeps over her as she sits still 
and motionless beside the four-poster, hearing but not 
heeding the idle wanderings of its occupant. In truth, it 
seems to her that she has heard enough, when she has 
added the incoherent ramblings just uttered to the evidence 
of her own senses; the dowager '’s broken words — (her rev- 


LADY DRAKKSMERE. 


104 

elation, as it almost seems to Muriel) — these wild gibber- 
ings of a crazy old woman have had in them, doubtless, 
the one great grain of truth; a truth that, forced upon her 
at this moment, seems more than she can bear. 

A longing to escape — to get away from hei’ immediate 
surroundings, to be alone — stakes possession of her. She 
rises precipitately to her feet. 

“ Stay, stay!^^ cries the dowager, stretching out her 
skinny hand as if to detain her forcibly. ‘‘You havenH 
told me yet if you have seen her. She, who ought to be 
you, you know!^'’ 

“ But it is seven years ago. Seven years! N'o, 
J3rookes,'’^ testily, “I will not be silent; I ask her. 
Why should she not be told? It is a sad story, and my 
. Lady Branksmere here seems to me to have a tender heart. 
Ah! it would melt a harder heart than hers to hear the 
story of the little one. Such love — such devotion, and all 
for naught. How it is too late!^^ She beckons eagerly to 
Muriel. “You need bear no malice, my dear; it is, in- 
deed, too late, as you know. Nothing could make her 
Lady Branksmere now! Yet that is what she craves — what 
she cries for night and day. Sometimes I hear her in the 
(lead of night J ^ 

She leans forward, half rising in her bed, and stares 
wildly at the opposite wall with a gaze, however, that 
pierces through the solid masonry into the realms of a dis- 
ordered fancy. 

“I donH ask you if you see her now she whispers, 
wildly clutching at MurieBs arm. “ I can see her for my- 
self. Look! Look, I say. She is there. There! in her’ 
little white frock, with — What is that, Brookes? What 
is that 9” shouts she, violently. “ It is blood — his Mood 9 
D^ye see the red spots upon her gown? They are his — his, 
I tell you — his heart’s blood! Drops drawn from his 
pierced breast! Oh, Arthur! Oh, my pretty boy!^^ 

„ She points frantically with her palsied hand toward 
space, and drops back exhausted upon her pillow inert — 
lifeless. 

“You must not heed her, my lady; she is not herself 
to-day, says Mrs. Brookes, hurriedly, her face looking a 
degree more bloodless than usual. “ My late lord^s death 
made a terrible impression upon her. She sees visions at 
times, or fancies she does. There is no truth in anything 


LADY DEAKKSMERE. 


105 


she says! I pray you remember that, madam! He was her 
favorite grandson, you see, and his sudden death, caused 
by such awful means, unsettled her poor brain/-’ 

‘‘ I know — I understand,’^ mufmurs Muriel, in a stifled 
tone, with the last remnant of calm that she can muster. 
Keleasing herself gently, but abruptly, from the dowager’s 
grasp, now grown feeble and purposeless, she rushes pre- 
cipitately from the room. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ He -was so glad, that I can not express 
In no manner his mirth, and his gladness.” 

Einding the hall door lying hospitably open he enters 
the house without the usual rat-tat, and traverses the hall 
without meeting a soul. It is so unlike the manor to be 
devoid of flesh and noise even in unsuspected quarters, that 
thus to find the very entrance silent and deserted suggests 
to Mr. Paulyn very sinister possibilities. He goes further; 
but still no sound falls on his anxious ears. Listen as he 
may, there come to him no squeals from the fat twins, no 
violent arguments in Peter’s dulcet bass, no tearful expos- 
tulations on the part of Angelica, no indignant remon- 
strances from Margery. Have they all been spirited away? 
Has madame, the sister-in-law, crushed their youthful gay- 
ety? Where is the riotous band of which he once was en- 
rolled a member? Where are the shouts that rang last 
year? A misgiving creeps over the Honorable Tommy. 
Surety, this death-like stillness bodes no good! His cousins 
are in the hands of the foe! 

The library is reached and found empty. The school- 
room is invaded with a sinking heart; but here, too, deso- 
lation reigns. Good gracious! Where are they? What 
on earth has happened? The piano is lying open, and Mr. 
Paul3m, seating himself upon the music-stool — he never 
can keep himself off a music-stool — looks mournfully down 
upon the yellowing keys. 

I hope the new importation isn’t playing the very 
dooce with ’em all,” he soliloquizes, plaintively; doubt, 
that has suddenly grown into a grim conviction, desolating 
his tone, which naturally is cheerful in the extreme. ‘‘But 
it looks bad. No yells; no skirmishing. Not so much as 


106 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


a cushion aimed at a fellow^s head from behind a half- 
opened door. It does look poor! It is one of two things — 
either they have all succumbed to the plague or the cholera, 
or Billyh’s wife is an outrand-outer. Well, 1^11 solve the 
riddle at once. If any of them are still in the land of the 
living, this will fetch •’em.^-’ 

He lays violent hands upon the long-suffering instru- 
ment, whereupon thunders uprise from it fulfilled with 
that touching melody commonly known as “Tommy 
Dodd.^^ This soft and sootliing air rings through the 
room. It, is, indeed, no exaggeration, and only allowing 
bare justice to Mr. Paulyn^s fingers to say it rings through 
the house. Mrs. Billy in the morning-room, hearing it, 
drops her flowers. The cook in the kitchen stays to 
hearken to it with uplifted roller. The maid in the 
scullery executes a small war-dance in tinie to the stately 
measure, whilst crying aloud, “ Why, that^s Master 
Tommy, for sure!^^ Mr. Bellew, making his usual en- 
trance into the house by means of the school-room window, 
is so staggered by it that he pauses midway, with one foot 
on the balcony still and one on the carpet inside. And 
Margery, rushing wildly through the hall, darts like a swal- 
low into the old room and literally flings herself into the 
musician^ s arms. 

“ Dear old thing she cries, ecstatically. “ To think 
youWe really come! Oh, Tommy. I say, how nice it is to 
see you again !^^ 

She gives him a little shake as if to make more sure of 
him, and then a smart thump between his shoulders. This 
thump is full of love and good fellowship. 

“ Why, there you are, Margery, old girl — and how are 
you?^^ returns the Honorable Tommy, drawing her down 
upon his knee and expanding into a broad grin of the very 
utmost delight. “Pretty well, eh?. Bearing up, eh? 
Thafs right. Never say die is your motto, I take it; and 
let me tell you I admire your spirit.-’^ 

“You ought to,^ says Margery, gayly, who is a little at 
sea as to his meaning. “You have had plenty of time to 
study it. What brought you down at this ungodly period? 
You, who are so fond of your ‘ Pall Mall ^?’^ 

“Pm not sure, unless it was to see you,^^ returns Mr. 
Paulyn, gallantly. “ I met Branksmere one day in Picca- 
dilly, and lie seized hold of me as though he was a police- 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 107 

man. ‘ Come alonger me/ said lie, and I liadn^t mucli of 
an excuse ready, so I corned. 

“ It doesnH matter a bit bow or why you came, so long 
as you are here,^"’ declares Margery, lovingly. 

All this you may be sure is creating pure rapture in the 
bosom of the young man who is still standing transfixed 
between the room Ind the balcdny. His eyes are glittering 
by this time, his brow is black! To say, indeed, that Mr. 
Eellew is now on the verge of laying himself open to a 
charge of manslaughter would convey to you but a small 
impression of the real state of his mmd. Margery! Mar- 
gery I sitting on that fellow^ s knee, looking into his eyes, 
and actually thimijmig him ! (That love thump had gone 
to his very soul.) Good heavens! What a sorry fool he 
has been. 

He brings ^he leg that has been lagging on the balcony 
into the room, with a resounding thud that rouses the two 
at the piano. They both look up at him, but if he had ex- 
pected to draw forth signs of guilt upon their countenances, 
he has made a greftt mistake. So far from being even dis- 
concerted by his sudden appearance. Miss Daryl maintains 
an unmoved exterior, and is sufficiently lost to all feelings 
of remorse as to continue her seat upon Mr. Paul3m^s knee. 

“ There you are, Curzon,^-’ she says, quite carelessly — 
which being a self-evident fact, calls for no rejoinder from 
the infuriated young man. 

‘‘ Ah, Belle w! Glad to see you. How are you, old 
chappy •’ asks Paulyn, who seems to be overflowing with 
good natui’e. 

‘‘ Quite well, thank you.^^ In a freezing tone, and with ■ 
a glance full of the deadlie^ hatred. 

‘‘ That^s all right! So am I,^^ declares Mr. Paul3m, 
cheerfully, as* though sure of the other^s reception of this 
satisfactory news. ‘‘ Oh, by Jove, here's Angelica. He 
bundles Margery off his knee without apology, and hurries 
toward his younger cousin, who pauses when she sees him, 
and spreads abroad her pretty hands in sheer amazement, 
and colors generously. 

Like a pale lily she stands, erect, slender, half child, 
half woman. Mr. Paulyn, who is doubtless a person of 
good taste, seems delighted with her, and kisses her warmly 
in cousinly fashion, an affliction to which she submits 
calmly, but without any expressed disapprobation. She 


108 


LADY BDAKKSMERE. 


even smiles uj)on him^, but from a distance, as it were — and 
seems rather glad than otherwise because of his presence. 

“ Well, she hasn^t starved you at all events. You were 
always slight, you know,^^ says Tommy, gazing at her in- 
tently. 

This remarkable speech is received in an amazed silence 
that gives time for the door to be again flung open to admit 
the twins, who rush tumultuously toward him, and fling 
their little plump arms around his neck. 

“ Indeed, I might even go further and say she has fat- 
tened you,^^ continued Tommy, holding back the twins at 
arms'’ length, both to study their proportions and to avoid 
their caresses, which are numerous and clammy. 

This remark also seems full of puzzlement to those 
around him; even the twins, who never think of anything 
under the sun, are aroused. % it, and look*inquisitive. 

“ Well, how does she treat you?^^ asks the Honorable 
Tommy, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper. “ Is 
she supportable, or the very devil, eh? I'’m afraid it^s the 
latter. But youTl have to bear up,^ou know. ‘ A frog 
he would a- wooing go, whether his mother would have it or 
no!^ Old song! ^Member it? That^s your case with 
Billy, donH you see?^^ 

“ But — " begins Margery, 'eagerly. 

“ Yes, of course, I quite understand all that. Beastly 
hard work upon you all. But what I say is — donT give in 
to her too much! Hold up your heads. March! Give 
yourselves airs! There^s a lot of you, and only one of her, ^ 
and I donT see why the crowd shouldn't win the day. ” 

“ There ishT any day to win,^^ declares Angelica, lifting 
her penciled brows. H^s won already./^ 

“ Then more shame for fou — a poor spirited lot!^^ ex- 
claims Mr. Paulyn, scornfully. “ To be, sat upon at the 
very first assault. I^m disgusted with you all. I believed there 
was some sort of go aniongst you, and now? That kind is she, 
eh?^^ with a starting drop from the highfalutin to the 
ordinary gossipy tone. 

“ She f Who, on earth. Tommy, are you alluding to?” 
asks Margery, with some asperity. 

Why, to Mrs. Daryl, of course,” very justly aggrieved. 

“ Who did you think?” 

‘‘ How often have I warned you that your incoherency 
will be your ruin! From the way you spoke one might 


LADY BHAKKSMEHE. 109 

quite as easily believe you were talking of the man in the 
moon as of Billyhs wife.'’^ 

‘‘ If you exert your brain a little bit^, you will remember 
that I said ‘ she/ retorts Mr. Paulyn, who is now deeply 
incensed. ‘‘ And I never heard of a woman in the moon. 
Did you?’^ 

‘‘ Here she is!^'’ cry the twins at this moment in a breath. 
All turn, in a slightly awed manner, to the door. 


CHAPTER XV. 

" He said, 

Or right or wrong, what came into his head.” 

Aftek all is only Mrs. Billy herself who meets their 
expectant gaze — Mrs. Billy, gowned in a charming costume 
of white serge, and accompanied by Dick. Her bonny face 
is wreathed in smiles, and she accosts Margery in quite a 
radiant fashion. . 

See here/ Meg. IVe got a real good thing to — But 
at this she stops dead short, and the good thing is lost for- 
ever. She stares inquiringly at Tommy, who is generously 
returning the attention, having his round eyes fixed im- 
movably upon her. At last Mrs. Billy gives way. She 
smiles broadly. 

‘‘ You donT help me, Meg,-’^ she says with a little laugh. 

The situation, I have no doubt, is full of interest, but as 
yet I am rather in the dark. Is this,^^ with a second swift 
glance at Paulyn, “ another of your young men.^^^’’ 

At this question, uttered in the airiest manner possible, 
Mr. Bellew — who up to this has maintained a silence 
charged with dynamite — breaks into a short sepulchral 
laugh! It ends almost as it began, and nobody takes the 
slightest notice of it except Margery, who casts upon him a 
glance fraught with many meanings. 

“ Certainly not,^^ she says, in answer to the question. 
‘‘ It is only Tommy. Tommy Paulyn; you know.'’^ 

Why, yes, certainly,^^ says Mrs. Billy, beaming upon 
the Honorable Tommy, and holding out to him a friendly 
hand. ‘‘ When did you come, eh? I seem to have known 
you for centuries, the girls talk so much about you. 

‘‘ The girls look scornful — Tommy grins. 


110 


tAt)Y BRAKKSMTIKE. 


“ Tliey would, you know — he says, giving his shirt- 
collar a conceited pull. “ They are so fond of me. 

Mrs. Daryl laughs. 

‘‘ IsnT it true, Angelica,” persists Mr. Paulyn, undaunt- 
ed by the dark looks cast on him by that sedate maiden. 

‘‘ Don’t you love me?^^ 

‘‘ Have I said so. Tommy asks she in her quaint, 
grave, quakerish fashion. 

“ A thousand times,^^ replies he. 

“ I will not contradict you. I will leave it to your con- 
science!” says the slim, tall, childish little thing, with a 
lovely reproach in her soft steady eyes. 

“ You leave it in safe quarters, then,” declares the irre- 
pressible Tommy, who seems to find a special joy in teasing 
her. “ You have named as umpire in tl^s case about the 
best thing of its kind. Don^t mind her, Mrs. Daryl, she 
adores me. Oome over here, Angelica, and sit beside me, 

I have a whole budget of news to open to you.” 

He backs toward a sofa as he speaks — a patriarchal 
piece of furniture that has been in the family for genera- 
tions. 

‘‘No, I will not,” says Angelica, with all the sweet, cold 
sternness of a child. “ You have not said what^s true — I 
will not go near you.'’^ 

“Then yoiiTl be sorry presently,” says Mr. Paulyn, 
with conviction. “ When I^m gone! I shall only be here 
for a week or so at the furthest, and who knows when you 
will see me again!” Here he seats himself heavily upon 
the ancient sofa, which creaks aloud in an expiring agony. 
Tommy being no small weight. “ I^m a bird of passage, 
you know; here to-day and gone — 

The word “ to-morrow ” is squealed out in a stifled tone, 
the old sofa having given way beneath him and buried him 
amongst its ruins. In his exit Mr. Paulyn may be said to 
have surpassed himself, naught of him being left to the ad- 
miring audience save a pair of perfectly appointed legs. 
Heels up the Honorable Tommy disappears from view. 

But these heels being discovered a little later on to be 
full of animation, and indeed, kicking vigorously, the un- 
happy victim of a sofa^s^weakness is once more hauled into- 
sight by those aromid. 

“ Well, Pm d Pm bio . Oh, confound it!” 

gasps he, growing irritable over his inability to give way to 


LADY BRAN^KSMERE. 


Ill 


naughty language in the presence of the girls. “ What 
the dooce is the good of a sofa like that, eh? Eegular 
man-trap, what? 1^11 take jolly good care I donH trust 
myself to its tender mercies again. 

“You have taken care,^'’ cries Margery, who is roaring 
with laughter. “ It^s in bits, poor old thing. And such 
an old friend as it was too! You ought to be ashamed of 
yourself. Tommy. 

“ Well, I^’m not,^'’ says Tommy, and then he joins in 
with the majority and laughs perhaps the loudest of them 
all at his mishap. Even Mr. Bellew has been so far im- 
pressed by the scene as to forget his wrongs and give way 
to moody mirth; but now, recollecting himself, goes back 
once more to gloom, and the shadow of the window-cur- 
tains. 

“ Are you staying at Branksmere?^^ asks Dick. “ Mu- 
riel said something about your coming. 

“Yes, at Branksmere. Fine old place. By the bye,^^ 
glancing round him confidentially, and evidently accepting 
Mrs. Billy as a confidante upon the spot, “ I never saw 
anything so awful as Muriel is looking! Like a handsome 
ghost. White as paper, donT you know, and her eyes as 
big as a pond.-’^ 

“ Elegant description!^^ murmurs Dick, admiringly. 
“ Been getting it up. Tommy? 

“ She regular frightened me, I can tell you. I used to 
be spoony about that girl,-’-’ confesses Mr. Paul 3 m in a 
loud, clear voice. “ I loved her like — like — well, like any- 
thing, you know; and now to find her so jpale and — and, 
still, rather took it out of me. Somebody ought to see to 
it, you know. Branksmere must be treating her very queer 
to bring her to such a pass. I canT get her out of my 
head,-’^ declares Mr. Paulyn, earnestly. “ Kept dreamin-’ 
of her all last night.-’"’ 

“ You Ye in love with her still, ^Maughs Mrs. Billy, 
gayly; “ thaPs what’s the matter with you."’-’ She has 
caught a nervous light in Margery’s eyes, and thus comes 
to her support and comfort. 

“Not a bit of it,” says Tommy, stoutly. “ Only she 
worries me. She’s as good as my sister, you know. In 
fact, all the girls here make up the only idea of home I’ve 
ever known. And I’m certain Muriel — ” 

“ Is quite happy,” interrujits Margery, decisively, her face 


112 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 


a little pale. Wliy, what silly notion have you ^ot into 
your head now? Is Muriel never to have a headache.'^ never 
to look pale? Is she such a favorite of the gods that all 
the ills of life are to be held back from her?^^ 

“ What I want to know is/*' said Mr. Paulyn, who is 
hopelessly unimpressed by this eager defense, “ why she 
married Branksmere. He^s a good old chap enough, and 
I really like him, but there was that other fellow Staines; 
he^s staying there now, by the way — dooced bad taste of 
him, I think- — well! she was going to marry him awhile 
ago, eh?^^ 

“ Pm jolly glad she didn^t,^-’ says Dick. 

“ So am I,'’^ supplements Angelica. ‘‘ Dancing-master 
sort of man I'’ ^ 

She married Branksmere because she chose to do so,” 
declares Margery, slowly. ‘‘ AVho shall arrange for her 

llGI* 1^G3 jSOI1S^^*^ 

“ Not I, for one,^'’ says Tommy. “ But — ” 

You will understand that there are to be no ‘ buts ^ in 
this case, ” interrupts Margery, suddenly, with a little flash 
of anger. ‘‘ I will not have MuriePs motives publicly can- 
vassed. Do you hear?” Her eyes are bright, but her 
lips tremulous. 

“ Ah! Vyg discovered it,” cries Mrs. Billy at this uncer- 
tain moment, with the brisk air of one who has at last 
achieved a victory over a treacherous memory. 

‘‘ What?” asks Angelica, eagerly. 

“ What it y^as I was going to say to Meg when first I 
came into the room. It escaped me then, but now I have 
it — recaptured. Margery, a word with you.'’^ 

She draws Meg aside, out of hearing, out of the late dis- 
cussion altogether, and, whatever she says to her, in a 
minute or two the angry flush fades from the girPs face, 
and she grows calm again, if still a little sad. 

As for Tommy, he is left upon the field in a distinctly 
injured frame of mind. 

“ It is an odd thing if I can’t discuss the girls’ well-be- 
ing amongst themselves,” he protests, indignantly. ‘‘ It 
is all very fine their pretending to be so independent, but 
I’m their cousin, and a sort of a guardian, by Jove. In 
fact, I feel as if they were all flung upon my shoidders 
now, somehow. Billy is, of course, too jnuch taken up 


LADY I5RANKSMERE. 


113 


with his late purchase to see anything beyond his nose, 
and Peter (mildly) “ is about the biggest fool I know!'’^ 

At this one of the twins bursts into a fit of inextinguish- 
able laughter. So pure, so jolly it is, that perforce most 
of the others chime in with it. Mr. Paulyn, however, re- 
gards the outburst with a grave eye. 

“ That chilrPs not well,^-’ he says slowly. Somebody 
had better look to it. If that severe paroxysm continues 
much longer, I wouldnT answer for the consequences. 

‘‘ What is it. May, Blanche asks Dick, who generally 
addresses each of the twins by both their names, so as to 
make sure of them. But May is still beyond speech. 

“ Pat her on the back, somebody, mildly but firmly,'’^ 
entreats Mr. Paulyn generally, shifting his glass from his 
right to his left eye. ‘‘ Give it her strong. Now then, 
my poor child. Better, eh? W^ell enough to explain?^ ^ 

“ IPs only tliis,'’^ cries May, with a faint relapse into her 
exjfiosive state, that what you just now said of Peter is 
exactly what he said of you yesterday, that you were the 
‘ biggest fool unhung. ^ That was how he put it. 

“Ah! an improvement on my little speech,” declares 
Mr. Paulyn, unmoved. “ Peter, if a little wanting, is 
still a specially ,nice fellow, and to tliink me the biggest 
fool unliung only proves, the truth of my opinion of him. 
You agree with me, Bellew?” dragging into the foreground 
the morose young man among the window-curtains. 

“ Do I?” said he, in a tone that warns Mr. Paulyn it 
will be unsafe to follow up the argument. 

“ What is the matter with you this moniing, Curzon.^” 
asks Margery, who had again joined the throng. “ You 
look to me so sour, that I shouldn't tliink you would agree 
with any one. ” 

“ I donT want to,” returns Mr. Belle w, with unwonted 
force. His wrongs burn within him, and iiis anger waxes 
warm. 

“ Lucky you! as matters stand. ” 

“ I wonder you have the hardihood even to address me,” 
breaks out he in a vehement undertone — his wrath at last 
getting the better of him. He does not wait for her an- 
swer to this, but turns abruptly aside, leaving her 
and ijidigi.rnit, and 1n fact, as slie wm.Sj>crs to hers-df, -wiih 


/ 


114 LADY BKANKSMEEE. 


CHAPTER XVL 

“ Frowning they went.” 

M^s. Billy is still laughing over May^s revelation of 
Petek 

“ toor Peter/^ she is saying, what a shame to betray 
liin/i He certainly does say funny things at times. " 

y Hot so funny as Dick,^^ breaks in Blanche, airily, who 
th^iks she sees her way to creating a sensation at least 
equal to May^s. He told us all about you before you 
came. But I donT think he could have known, because 
what he said wasnH a bit like 3^ou.^^ 

“ What did he say? Was it too flattering a picture he 
drew?^'’ asks Wilhelmina, laughing again. 

“ Blanche calls out Dick, who has grown very red. 
‘‘ Go fetch me my fishing-rod from your den, and ITl go 
and get you some trout for your breakfast to-morrow.^-’ 

“ Hot until you have given me Dick^s portrait of me, 
drawn from his inner consciousness,^^ says Mrs. Daryl, mis- 
chievously. ‘‘ How begin — I was — 

Tall — very — very big,^^ nods the child, solemnly. 
And you are quite little, after all. He said, too, that 
you would be a dreadful woman — a sort of an Orson! and 
that you would — 

‘‘ Blanche in an agony from Dick. 

“ You would hate little girls like me and May, and go 
about the farm all day in top-boots and leggings. You 
•wouldnH like leggings, would you now?’^ 

“Ho, 110,^^ assents Mrs. Billy. 

“ And he said you would always carry a cart- whip with 
you, to strike the farm people with, just like Degree, and 
Sambo, and Jumbo — recTect?"^ 

“ Perfectly. Oh, Dick! and so that was what you 
thought of me. Say, Billy accosting Mr. Daryl, who 
has suddenly appeared ui the doorway; “ a fetching de- 
. s,Qription, wasr/t it?^' 

“ I’d anywL:::,” 

'hakiv.<>- hands wil't and Welcc-ining 
wifn Iviiiriei, eh.^’' he asks. 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


115 


" ni tell you something/^ says Blanche, who is busy 
adorning all Wilhelmina’s button-holes with primroses. 
“ Muriel isn^t a bit like the rest of us. Is she now? When 
she gets in a rage — 

“ Which is about once in a blue moon/^ interposes An- 
gelica. 

“ She never stamps, or fumes, or boxes people^s ears as 
Meg does — ^ ^ 

Here everybody laughs involuntarily. 

“ As anybody would do,^^ corrects Blanche, with a pen- 
itent glance at Margery “ She only stands straight up 
like this ^ — drawing up her little fat body into an absurd 
attempt at dignity — “ and opens her eyes wide like this, 
and fastens up her fingers, so! It is terrifying, I can tell 
you,-’^ with a salient nod and the expressive little shrug of 
the shoulders that is an heirloom in the Daryl family. 
“We never vexed Muriel if we could help ourselves. 

“Muriel was clever, it seems to me,^-’ exclaims Mrs. 
Billy. “ I wish you to understand, Billy, that now, at 
last, I know the way to manage you. The wisdom of babes 
is astounding. When next you give me a bad time I shall 
be terrifying. Blanche has just shown me how I shall 
draw myself up, so,^^ throwing herself into a pretty but 
exaggerated position, “ and open my eyes, so; and close 
my fingers upon you, so,^^ giving him a dainty little 
pinch, “ and then youTl be done for in no time!^^ She 
looks so bright, so gay, so replete with honest life, so de- 
fiant, yet so loving withal, that Billy must be forgiven for 
resorting to instant measures for the reducing of her to 
order. He gives her first a sound shake and then a sound 

“ And that^s what I^ll do!^^ says he. 

“ Billy! what a barbarian you are!^^ cries she, blushing 
hotly at this breach of etiquette, but as they are all enjoy- 
ing her discomfiture, she gives up expostulation, and pres- 
ently her laugh is the clearest and merriest amongst them. 

“ Pity - the ball next Thursday isnT a fancy one,^'’ says 
Angelica. “You could manage to look a part I am sure. 
As a rule, I am told, the Madame Favarts look like Joan 
of Arcs, and the Marie Stuarts like Serpolettes. That 
must rather destroy the effect. 

“ What are you going to wear, Meg?^^ asks Tommy 
Paulyn. 


116 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 


“ Nothing.^" 

“ ‘ Nothing/ My dear girl, consider. We are advanced 
enough in all conscience, but — there still is a line I"* ■’ 

“ not 'going, says Miss Daryl. “ That is what I 
mean. ^ ^ 

“Not going 

‘ ‘ No. The fact is, I haveiiT a gown,^ ^ declares Margery, 
bluntly, disdaining subterfuge, and secure in the thouglit 
that it is too late for any one touched by her state to order 
one for her. 

“Nonsense, Meg," cried Mrs. Daryl, sharply “Of 
course you are going. Why, your gown came half an 
hour ago, by the midday train. Tm wool-gathering to- 
day. That is another thing I forgot to tell you. It is 
upst — 

But there is no longer a Margery to address. Miss 
Daryl has flown from the room, and presently returns to 
them with a mystic mass of tulle and lace carried rev- 
erently between her outstretched arms. 

“ Ah! AVilly, what can I say?" whispers she, tears in 
her soft eyes. 

“ Why, you little pretty goose! Did you think I could 
enjoy myself without you? It is all selfishness,^^ smiles 
Wilhelmina. 

“ There is Peter !^^ cries Margery, presently, in an ex- 
cited t6ne (they have all gone into raptures over Worth^s 
last triumph by this time). “ He is coming across the 
lawn. He must see it, too. She runs to the window and 
waves her handkerchief with frantic grace. 

“ Peter! Peter! Peter! Pi— i — i — per,^^ calls she, gayly. 
At last he hears her, and leisurely (being ignorant of the 
greatness of the occasion) crosses the lawn lower down, and 
comes up to her. 

“ Why on earth canT you hurry yourself? cries she. 

“ The day is long — and patience is a virtue to be culti- 
vated 

“ Perhaps, ironically. “ You think you have it.'^*’ 

“ I ]c7ioio I have it."’^ 

“ Pouf! How men deceive themselves: 

“ ‘ Patience is a virtue, 

Catch it if you can; 

It is seldom in a woman, 

But never, never, ne-veii in a manl’ 


LADT BRANKSMERE. 


117 


However, clonH mind that, Peter! come in until I show 
you my new gown that Willie has given me. Isn^tita 
beauty? A lovely thing ?^^ 

“It is indeed a charming dress,^^ said Peter, looking at 
Wilhelmina as gratefully as though the gift to this, his 
favorite sister, had been made to himself. 

“ AVhere is Curzon?-’^ he asks, presently. “ I thought 
he was here.^^ 

At this they all look round. 

“He certainly was here a minute or two ago, says 
Dick, who had been heaping ashes on his head ever since 
Blanche's disclosure, but now thinks it better to assert 
himself, if only to see how the land lies. 

“He went away,^^ says little May, blandly; “ he was 
cross with Meg, and I think he didn't like Willie to give 
her the pretty new frock, because the moment he saw it he 
went out of the window. " Oh! terrible eyes of infancy — 
what smallest mood escapes you? Margery feels that the 
gaze of those assembled is by this untoward speech fastened 
expectaritly upon her. 

“ I think he was vexed about something," she stammers. 
“ But I don't know what it was." 

“ He is walking up and down the garden," cries Blanche, 
who has been peeping round the window. “ He has his 
eyes," excitedly, “ glued to the ground. I'm sure, I'm 
certain he is looking for cockroaches." 

“ Looking for a reason for his ill-temper more likely," 
says Margery, disdainfully. 

“ Go and find him, and have it out," says Mr. Paulyn, 
good-naturedly. 

“ Why should I? One would think it was a tooth you 
were talking about," returns Miss Daryl, indignantly. 
“ Go and have it out with him yourself. He was looking 
daggers at you all the time he was in-doors. What have I 
got to do with him?" 

“ I leave your own innate sense of truth to answer that 
question, Margaret," says Mr. Paulyn, solemnly. 

“ Ho, you don't," wrathfully, “ you want to answer it 
yourself. It is a most extraordinary thing. Tommy, that 
you will interfere in the affairs of other people. " 

“ It is my opinion that you have had a right-down flare- 
up with him," says the Honorable Tommy, unabashed. 


118 


LADY BRAKKSMEEE. 


“ Do you really think, after all your experience, that 
such an opinion as yours is of any consequence at all?''’ 

“ A regular shindy, persists Mr. Paulyn, untouched by 
this scathing remark. 

“ Pshaw!"'’ exclaims she, in an accent of unmixed scorn, 
and stepping through the southern window may be seen 
presently marching off in the direction of the wood, a 
route that will convey her far from the garden made ob- 
noxious by Mr. Bellew"s presence. 

She is hardly gone upon her solitary journey when the 
upper window is darkened by the incoming form of that 
moody young man. He looks forlorn and crestfallen and 
altogether out of it, as one might say. He comes awk- 
wardly in, and gazes eagerly, but somewhat shamefacedly 
round, and then looks distinctly blank. 

“ Looking for Margery?"" asks Peter, blithely. 

“No. Oh, no,"" returns Belle w, with a miserable at- 
tempt at a lie. 

“If you are,"" insists Peter, with a noble disregard oi 
this feeble assertion, “ you" 11 find her in the beech- wood. " " 

“ She has only just gone,"" puts in Mr. Paulyn, with an 
encouraging air. “ The'trail is still fresh. If you hurry 
you"ll catch it. "" 

“ Pll catch it, anyway,"" returns Mr. Bellew, darkly, as 
with a gloomy eye he drops once , more on to the veranda 
and turns his footsteps in the track of his false love. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ The Spring half raised her drowsy head 
Bcspriut with drifted snow, 

‘ I’ll send an April day,’ she said, 

‘ To lands of wintery woe. ’ 

He came, the winter’s overthrow — 

With showers that sing and shine, 

Piedmaises round your path to strow. 

To be your Valentine.” 

It was now close upon noon. In the wood a somber 
light, sweet and delicate, is playing upon the opening buds 
and the greening branches. Through the heavy fir-trees 
the sun is glinting, making warm patches of color upon 
the mossy sward. The dells and smoother bits of grass are 
gay with primroses and daffodils, and one tiny hillock over 


jlERE. 


119 


and purple glory of hyacinths and 
„ ^**01 w are touches of coming summer in all 

the air, in the widening leaves, the dancing rays, the warm, 
springy feeling of the turf beneath oner’s feet. 

The song of thrush and linnet greets one from every 
bough. The sky is blue as blue can be; the soft gray 
feathery buds in the hedge-rows are growing fat; earth 
hath — 

“ Put forth a thousand sudden flowers 
To spread a couch,” 

and a languorous wind makes plaintive music in the beech- 
grove below. 

The pale dog-violets have all burst out a-flowering, and 
already the meadows are gay with marguerites, white and 
yellow. But the finest flower amongst them all is the fair, 
pensive maiden, with lily-drooping head, who steps between 
them with a careless grace, and crossing the brilliant meads 
enters the cool, dark woods beyond. 

She is not singing, as is her wont; but goes with bent 
head, and with lips mute and half-saddened, and with low- 
ered lids. Swiftly, too, she goes — not lingering to gaze 
with loving eyes at each fresh-born wonder at her feet — or 
to drink in more deeply the full ecstasy of the air, or to 
hearken to the glad oratorios the birds are giving in the 
mystic recesses of the wood, but hastening always as though 
to escape from her ve:^ self. 

Perhaps it is sometimes .easier to escape from one^s self 
than from a determined lover. This thought occurs to 
Margery when, happening to glance back through the thick- 
ening foliage, she sees Mr. Bellew afar olf, plainly in hot 
pursuit of her. It may be that she is not altogether dis- 
pleased with this discovery, because, though she slnmgs her 
shoulders with a disdain that terrifies a simple robin chirp- 
ing on a bush near by, she still smiles, as if involuntarily, 
and a little gratified expression, full of vanity satisfied, 
curves her red lips. 

She takes no outward heed, however, of the on-comer, 
but pursues her way as though his near approach is a thing 
unknown to her. There are, indeed (if the truth be told), 
a good many little ways about Miss Daryl that might seem 
to the uninitiated genuine and guileless in the extreme, 
but that in reality are disgracefully false, and meant only 
for the discomfiture (and sometimes for the total annihila- 


120 


. it 

LAD if jiilAjNAH 

tion) of those whose greatest fault lioo 
loving her too well! It must be admitted that hei — 
ers lead but a sorry life of it. »She can take them up so 
easily, and, alas! let them down so easily again when they 
grow tiresome, that their short spells of joy are as a rule 
but matters for commiseration. To her it is possible to be 
sweet, petulant, coy, cruel, almost in a breath. Indeed, 
to follow out her maneuvers, even for a day, would be to 
some people a useful study. 

Now, having arrived at a spot that appears to her to be 
good for the hievitable interview with Bellew, she takes up 
a position so full of melancholy, that the young man, draw- 
ing every moment nearer, is almost crushed by it. She is 
leaning in a mournful attitude against a huge fir-tree, with 
her shapely head thrown well back against the bark of it, 
and her gaze uplifted in pensive thought to the azure 
heavens above. There is a sense of injury about her lips, 
and her eyes are still angry. Mr. Bellew^ s heart dies within 
him. Be she ever so guilty, it is terrible to him that she 
should look like this! 

A crackling of the dry leaves beneath his feet gives her 
the chance of being aware of his presence. Slowly, ver^ 
slowly, she turns upon him the lovely, wratlif ul eyes, and 
fixes him with a reproachful stare. 

“ Is no place safe from you?^^ she demands in an icy 
tone. “ Am I never to be alone? I wonder after all the 
cruelty you have shown me, you have the — the ‘ hardi- 
hood ^ ” — with a swiftly malicious glance at him from 
under her long lashes — ‘ To approach me. 

“ I wish I had not said ttat,^^ says the young man, 
humbly. ‘‘ It was an odious word. How could I have 
used it when speaking to you! But — He looks at 

her. 

“ But what?^^ imperiously. 

‘‘ Margery! think how I saw you first to-day. 

‘‘ How you saw me? In this old gown! To which, if 
you are not accustomed, you ought to be. 

It is a lovely gown, and you look lovely in it,^^ says 
Curzon, gloomily. “ But it has nothing to do with it. 
When I came in through the window, you were sitting on 
that fellow^ s — Here he stops sliort, as if choking, for a 
moment ov two, and. then bursts out ^gain — “ hiec I” he 


' ‘ ■ " ' ' '^F.T3. 121 

LADY BRA-NTKS^ . 

, . i 1 1 -i i.]ie ha‘< 4 'nl ^-'ord has heen 

yonder is an actual whd ^ 

blue-bell^^^^ said Miss Daryh regarding^ him con- 

temptuously. “All the vile, temper you displayed this 
morning arose out of the fact that I sat on Tommy 
Paulyn'’s knee!^^ A little irrepressible laugh breaks from 
her, but she stifles it sternly. No! she will not give way 
to frivolity on this occasion. His manner is altogether too 
abominable! “ You might as well And fault with me for 
sitting on Billyhs or Peters's knee,^^ she goes on, scornfully. 
“ It would be quite the same thing, I assure you, except 
that I should prefer Billy; he wouldnT gig one so. So 
that^s all the excuse you can give for your base conduct.^ 
Have you taken leave of your senses 

“ No,^^ says Mr. Belle w, his eyes on the ground; “ my 
senses are with me now, as then. They were all with me 
when I saw you hiss him 

“ Is there anything strange in that? I have kissed him 
since I was so high,'’^ pointing to about an inch or so from 
the ground. “You forget he is an old, old friend.^-’ 

“ So am I, yet you have never — 

“ I should think not, indeed. You will be good enough 
to remember that he is my cousin. 

“ One can marry a cousin !^^ puts in Mr. Bellew irrele- 
vantly, but with the deepest anguish. It melts her for the 
moment. 

“ Well,^^ she says, impatiently, “ I^m not going to 
marry Tommy, if that is what you mean. 

“ If,"’"’ looking up eagerly, “ I could be sure of that?^^ 
A little glow of hope comes into his face. “ Or any one 
else, for that matter !^^ 

The glow fades, and he grows pale again; but a touch of 
determination comes into his handsome eyes. 

“ Look here!^^ he says, gazing straight at her; “ if you 
are not going to marry him, are you going to marry me? 
I want to get an answer to that question now.’’^ 

“It is a pity, Curzon,^^ remarks Miss Daryl, with a 
slight frown, that you will permit yourself such brusque- 
ness of demeanor. “ It is very distressing! Your manner 
is positively farouche at times; it quite takes oiie^s breath 
away. 

“ Answer me,^^ says Curzon, obstinately. 

“ Your asking me now suggests tome the possibility that 


LADY BRAXK SM 


ynu arc very of gothVig V-io’fo your answer/^ 

Mi :3 v RUrjv gAirice. “After your 

dreadful Ibehavior of tliis morning, I wonder you have the 
^hardi— 

“ Is that wretched' word to be remembered forever 9” 
interrupts he, desperately. “ Good heavens! howl wished 
it had never been coined. Think how seldom I offend you, 
and doiiT follow up this one sin to its death. To my 
death, I verily believe it will be,^^ winds he up, with a 
groan. 

“ Seldom repeats she. “How little you understand 
yourself. In my opinion, you are the most offending man 
I know.^’ 

“ You are talking nonsense says Bellew, indignantly. 
“I am your slave, as all the world knows. It ought 
— ^bitterly — “ it can see daily for itself how abject is my 
submission. 

“ I donT tv ant a slave declares she, with an angry 
glance suggestive of tears. “ It is very rude of you to sup- 
pose so. Am I a South American planter? And to talk 
of slaves! If you called yourself Mrs. Amy offs shadow — 
you would be nearer the mark!^^ 

“ Stuff !'^ says Mr. Bellew, more forcibly than elegantly. 
“ You donH believe a word of that. And if I were in love 
with her, it would only serve you right. We might be 
quits then.^^ 

“ Why? I havenH fallen in love with any one in a 
hopelessly idiotic manner, have I? And as for ‘ serving 
me right (whatever that remarkable speech may mean), 
why, if you think it would distress me, your falling in love 
with any one, you are immensely mistaken, and I would 
advise you to dispel from your mind at once all such illu- 
sions.'’^ 

This speech seemed to Bellew to herald the end of all 
things. 

“ You are cruel beyond imagination,^^ he says, slowly. 
“ I hate a heartless woman!’’ 

“ So do I. For once we are agreed. That is why I care 
never to part with mine.” 

“ One must possess a thing, to be in a position to part 
with it.” 

“ True, 0 king!” 

“ Have you a heart at all?” 


LAP 


123 


‘ Have 

‘ .should ai,§5\’er liat :^i7est!o;if bid. fmi -vou, who 
possess it?^^ 

Poof says she, contemptuously, ‘‘you are but a 
poor reasoner ; a moment ago you douMed my having such 
an unsatisfactory article, and now you accuse me of having 
misappropriated yours. How is one to grasp your mean- 
ing?^^ 

“We are talking nonsense,^ ^ declares the young man, 
angrily. “We shall be quarreling soon. There is no 
irony intended in this remark, though it might reasonably 
be supposed dy an impartial listener to be full of it. 

“ I never quarrel,^'’ declares she, superbly, uptilting her 
charming nose, “ except with the boys. They like it, so I 
do it with them out of sheer good nature. But other- 
wise — She shrugs her shoulders. 

“ Perhaps you think I like it, too?^^ 

“ I have told you already that I should not dream of 
quarreling with you; and as for thinking about you — 
disdainfully — “ I never do that.^^ 

“You are a shameless coquette!'’^ exclaims Mr. Belle w, 
driven to desperation and bad language by this cruel asser- 
tion. 

Silence! A terrible silence! Ho woman, if born a 
coquette, likes to be called so. Most women who couldiiT 
be coquettish to save their lives, are delighted if you will call 
them so. Miss Daryl, belonging to the first class, is now 
hopelessly offended. She turns deliberately away from 
Curzon, and clasping her hands behind her back com- 
mences an exhaustive survey of the landscape. 

It is a rich picture that spreads itself before her. The 
Manor woods, though hardly extensive, are in themselves 
lovely, and beyond, adjoining them to the east, are the 
forests of Branksmere — the glowing heights and hollows 
now rich with bursting verdure. Down, far away beneath 
her, is the 'little leafy dell where Muriel had lingered on 
that first night of her return home, to let wild thoughts of 
a lost past grow warm within her breast. Dangerous 
thoughts, treacherous, vain, that would have been better 
buried out of sight, and killed for want of feeding. 

T'o Margery, this pretty, innocent-looking spot seems full 
of sadness. Peticent as Muriel by nature was, and is, still 
the younger sister had known much of her love-affair with 


12i i;i )'j;AK'KS^U:RE. 

S 

C^iiptain Staines — ^;ail kncwn amori^st 'otlier things that 
this sheltered hollow was the trysting-place of the lovers — 
a place to be avoided by /^er^Margery — all last autumn, 
as being sacred to them alone. 

She almost forgets Oiirzon now, as her eyes dwell upon 
it, and unconsciously she sighs audibly. This resigned ex- 
pression of a hidden grief is misconstrued by her compan- 
ion, and compels liim to speech. 

“ I think I am the most unfortunate man on earth, 
he begins, with amazing calmness, considering the nature 
of his statement. Doubtless it is the calmness that savors 
of despair, “I have offended you twice to-day. Both 
these remarks being positive assertions delivered in a tone 
that admits of no argument. Miss Daryl very wisely de- 
clines to combat them. 

Her continued silence is more than Mr. Bellew has 
strength to endure. 

Meg!^'’ he says, in a voice replete with misery and con- 
trition. His face so exactly corresponds with his voice that 
Margery relents in so far that she permits herself to be in- 
stantly down upon him. 

How, once for all!^^ she declares, I wonT be called 
by that name again. Meg! It is monstrous! It reminds 
me of nothing on earth save a goat! and that hateful 
nursery rhyme the ,boys used to drum into my ears long 
ago— 

“ ‘ Meg-a-geg-geg, 

Let go my leg. ’ 

How, remember! in the future I forbid you so to address 
me. 

Margery, then,^^ meekly. 

‘^Certainly not. 

“ ‘ See-saw, Margeiy-daw. 


That is, if possible, worse. Do you think I ani without 
feeling, that you so seek to annoy me? I wish I had had 
the transporting of my godparents. 

‘‘ I will call you by any name you choose, declares he, 
submissively. 

'' “ Margaret, then. There is something respectable about 
that. Ho flippancy — no vulgar rhymes are connected with 
it, 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


125 


“ I am gM to know at last what pleases you. Mar- 
garet/^ returns he, evenly, his gaze riveted ui3on the turf 
at his feet. If he dared, he would have liked to smile, but 
such a luxury, he feels, is at this moment forbidden him. 
He therefore contents himself with staring rigidly at a 
tuft of grass that in reality possesses for him no sort of in- 
terest at all, and would have been called by him a shabby 
bit of verdure had he given it a thought. 

“ You are longing to say something,'''’ says Miss Daryl, 
at last, who has been regarding him with profound dis- 
pleasure for at least two minutes. ‘‘ Why don "t you do it?^^ 

‘‘You are right. I want to tell you how glad I am that 
you have at last made up your mind to go to the county 
ball. 

“ Willie made it up for me, you mean. Don^t mix mat- 
ters. " 

“ And to-morrow you are going to Sir Mutius Mumm^s 
afternoon 

“ I suppose so. All the world is to be there, and one 
should at least patronize one^s uncle. 

Bellew is quite aware that she has not as yet forgiven 
him by the little petulant fashion in which she keeps her 
head turned away and directed to that grassy rendezvous 
that once had been so dear to Muriel. His eyes follow 
hers, and grow a little wider as they rest on a solitary fig- 
ure — a woman^s figure that slowly and wearily enters it, 
and sinks in a dejected attitude upon a mossy throne that 
decorates its nearest side. It is not long a solitary figure! 
Even as they both gaze spell-bound at it, a man steps light- 
ly from the brushwood outside and advances toward it. 
There is a suggestion of surprise in the way the first tall, 
graceful form rises to receive this last comer, and then Bel- 
lew, as if aware that Margery has grown decidedly pale 
(though her back is turned to him) and that she would 
gladly believe herself sole witness of this vague scene be- 
neath her, turns abruptly away and concentrates his gaze 
on the Branksmere turrets that are rising gray and livid 
through the swelling trees. 

In a very little while, in a moment, as it were, he feels 
the light touch of her hand upon his arm. Though light 
still, it is heavier than usual, and being the true lover that 
he is, he feels a sense of pain thrill through him, that runs 
from her to him. She is very white, and her eyes have a 


126 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


strange gleam in tliem. She has evidently altogether for- 
gotten that there was any disagreement between them. 

“ Take me home, Ourzon,^"^ she says, faintly. “ I am 
tii’ed; deadly tired. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ Some men are of a very cheerful disposition, and God forbid 
that all such should be condemned for lightness.’^ 

Last night was full of tears, but now the sad reign of 
weeping is at an end, and the passionate storm that raged 
in the dark, small hours has left no trace on the smiling 
earth, save the sweet shedding of white blossoms on the 
garden paths. Great Pluvius has sunk to rest, and Dies- 
pater. Father of Day, has arisen in all his might, clad 
about with glorious sunbeams and glad with the breath of 
many flowers. 

The tennis-courts without are thronged with guests; the 
halls, the corridors, the vestibules are all full of them; and 
Miss Mumm, standing stiff and starch in her drawing-room 
to receive the late arrivals, with her small curls hanging 
crisply on either side of her pursed-up mouth, is full of im- 
portance, and, in a degree, more unaj^proachable than 
usual. 

The room that acknowledges her presence is in every 
way worthy of her, with its square stiff ottomans, its gilt 
chairs covered with priceless tapestry, its heavily molded 
cornices, and the general air of unbending propriety that 
characterizes it. It is a last century room, not without 
its charm if viewed in a certain light— a room hi which 
stately minuets and graceful gavottes might have been trod 
in ancient days by dead and gone folk who thought more 
of snuff than morality, and who saw greater glory in the 
successful achievement of an intrigue than in the conquer- 
ing of a kingdom; people who simpered and lisped in 
flowered sacks and powdered wigs, in lace ruffles and high- 
heeled shoes, and got through life with the help of an epi- 
gram or two, and a perpetual shower of wearisome and 
carefully prepared but strictly impromj)tu (?) hon mots. 

Miss Mumm is holding forth in her usual dictatorial style 
to old Lady Primrose about Muriel, who, it appears, after 
all, has disappointed her expectations in many ways. Old 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


127 


Lady Primrose is feebly entering a protest here and there, 
and is looking a little distressed, which is only natural, the 
person ^ittacked being her hostess. 

“ She may be good!^^ Miss Mumm is saying in between 
her greetings to the wife of the local practitioner and the 
Honorable Mrs. Hornblower, which differ widely in texture. 
“ She may be; her aunt and should know. And she 
may be charming, too, as you say, ” with heavy and damn- 
ing emphasis upon the “ may. ‘‘ But I fear she is care- 
less. I have noticed many little defects in her; many lean- 
ings toward the frivolous side of life; much desire for 
'riotous living. Yes, she is careless. I fear she wonH do.” 
Here Lady Primrose, who is deafer than ever to-day, grows 
very mixed, and begins to think she has gone a good deal 
wrong iii her understanding of Miss Mumm^s discourse, 
and that she is alluding not to her niece. Lady Branks- 
mere, but to some incompetent upper house-maid. 

‘‘You are alluding to — she asks, uncertainly, an anx- 
ious frown upon her furrowed brow. 

“ Why, to Muriel — Lady Branksmere. CanH you follow 
me?^^ shouts Miss Mumm, as loud as decency will permit. 

“ Of course, of course. I hear you. I beg you will not 
distress yourself like that. One would think I was deaf,^^ 
says the old lady, irritably. 

“She has got no, stamina,” goes on Miss Mumm. 
“ She^s all for glow and glitter; solid worth is of no ac- 
count in her eyes. For example, look at the improvements 
she is organizing up at the castle. She has thrown up a 
few earthworks and calls ^em terraces. Terraces, forsooth! 
and to manage that she takes away the balk beneath the 
arbutus-trees that cdiuays was there — even in the days of 
the old man^s grandfather, I^m told."'^ 

“ So IVe heard — so IVe heard! Threw up everything, 
and went off with her in a post-chaise, ” mumbles Lady 
Primrose, who is now dreadfully at sea again. Fortunately, 
she is not “ understanded of Miss Mumm, who pursues 
her way unchecked by doubts. 

The avenue in itself would tell a tale. I was driving up 
there yesterday, and saw weeds — positively weeds — ^growing 
at the sides of it. I stopped the carriage, got out and 
counted twenty! With me, seeing is believing. I take 
nothing on hearsay, but I counted those weeds with my 


m 


LADY BRAKKSMEREr 


own eyes. Now, weeds are as pushing as parvemis, and 
like them, should be eradicated. 

Quite right, quite right. Have no sympathy with 
radicals myself; canH endure "’em,"’'’ quavers flie older 
woman, shaking her head in a palsied fashion. 

Why should weeds be found upon her avenue at all?^^ 
continues Miss Mumm, who is now mounted upon her 
hobby, and rides away again without hearing the ramb- 
lings of Lady Primrose. “ Of course, if oner's servants are 
not looked after, what can you expect? If I had forty — as 
I believe that silly young woman really has — I should keep 
my eye on every one of them. They will do nothing, I hav^ 
learned from sad experience, unless the mistress is after 
their tails morning, noon and night. Now, weeds they 
will take no trouble about. Off they whisk the heads, 
leaving the roots behind them, whereas if one hopes to kee]) 
their place decent, they must be got out of the ground root 
and branch. 

“ Ay, ay! Root ^em out — root ^em out!^^ gabbles the 
old lady, with senile enthusiasm. Lord Poozil thinks 
with 2/ow. They shouldnT be allowed to live,^^ with a 
wild cackle. “ ThaPs what he says, cuck, cuck.-’^ 

Eh?^^ says Miss Mumm, staring at her with sudden 
suspicion. 

They shouldnT have a vote if he had Ms way. It^s 
monstrous how theyh’e spreading. Country's going to 
perdition. ThaPs what he says. Clever fellow, Foozil? 
Eh? eh?^^ 

Pshaw exclaims Miss Mumm, indignantly, turning 
on her heel and leaving the old lady still cackling and 
mumbling contentedly over her radicals. 

Outside, the gardens — being in unison with the furni- 
ture within — are simply exquisite. Give me an old-world 
garden full of sweets and careless grace above all the stiff- 
ribbon borders and stereotyped modern beds in the world. 
Here the tall, trimly-clipped yew hedge conceals a pleas- 
aunce made gay with flowers of a century ago, and the 
gaudy hues of the strutting peacocks who walk in stately 
fashion to each new comer to demand the customary toll 
of bread or biscuit. The small cries of countless robins 
fill the air, little, gentle denizens that seem to have adopt- 
ed this calm retreat as their own special domain, where 
they may hop about in undisturbed delight on the marble 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


129 


basins of the fountains, and twitter frivolously to their 
hearths content from the shoulders of a dismantled Venus 
or Apollo. 

The pleasaunce is crowded with gay groups dotted here 
and there. Through the open windows beyond the wall of 
rhododendrons come snatches of Mozart and Dussek. From 
further still the laughter of the tennis-players, and the 
triumphant cry that tells of a game won. Mrs. Amyot, in 
a gown of sap-green, is lounging leisurely on a low garden 
chair, and is holding her court gayly. A little further on 
Lady Branksmere, in a marvelous costume of Venetian 
red, looks like a spot of blood in the assembly, whilst An- 
gelica, leaning on the hack of her chair, in a little white 
nun-like frock, and with a rapt expression on her face, 
makes a charming contrast. 

“ Who is the old man over there asks Lord Primrose, 
presently, who is perhaps not so well acquainted with his 
host as might be termed advisable. Margery, who over- 
hears him, laughs. 

“Hush! Mutius Mumm is the word for him,^^ she 
, whispers, mischievously. 

“ What a namer^ says Primrose. “ So that is really 
your uncle? You do him credit, let me tell you, and I 
should think he wants all he can get. What^s the matter 
with his head? He doesnT belong to any particular order, 
does he?;^ 

At this, Margery, Angelica — and Dick, who is lying 
about somewhere near, give way to appreciative laughter. 

“ That bald spot was a thing full of interest to us for 
years," says Margery, gayly. “We used to make baby 
bets about it. And every year it grew carefully bigger and 
bigger! Such an old head as he has! First we used to 
compare his patch to a threepenny bit, then as it increased 
with our years and his, a fourpenny. Then it became a 
sixpence, then a shilling, then a florin, and then, all at 
once, as it were, it changed into a five-shilling piece! When 
it came to that point it staggered us a good deal, I can tell 
you, but Tommy — indicating Mr. Paulyn, by a wave of 
her fan — “ came to the rescue. He surmounted the diffi- 
culty. A brilliant thought occurred to him. The first — " 

“or 1 long series,^’’ interrupts Mr. Paulyn, modestly, 
y*‘i .voli a reproachful glance at her. What had she been 
^ay? “ I employed but one letter to effect the 


130 


LADT BEANKSMEEE. 


desired comparison. It instantly made Sir Mutius^s pate 
a plate. 

‘‘ A cheese plate/^ supplements Margery. “ It stayed 
at that for some time, but now it is a soup plate. ‘‘ We 
expect no more from it. We feel it has done its duty.’’^ 

‘ Why donH he do something for it?^^ demands Prim- 
rose, casting an indignant eye through his glass at the dis- 
tant Sir Mutius. ‘‘ It^s very abominable his going about 
like that in his skin.^^ 

I wish you wouldn^t talk so unguardedly, my dear 
fellow,'’^ says Halkett, gravely, “ when you know there are 
ladies present. It— it is not decent !” 

‘‘ Of Sir Mutius? No, that^s what Pm preaching,^^ re- 
turns Primrose, stolidly. 

‘‘ What an absurd name it is,'’^ says Mr. Amyot, laugh- 
ing, “ Mutius Mumm. Oh! it is too ridiculous 1^^ 

“ He and Aunt Salina, as he calls her, are about the 
most absurd pair in the world. 

‘‘ As for her, she is delicious,^ protests Mrs. Amyot. 
“ She is a thing apart — voice, ringlets, and all. It is a 
pity to lose a bit of her.^^ 

“ You had better make the most of her to-day, then, 
says Margery, “ because she is off to Shoebank next week 
early. It is her one idea of traveling, and she does it assid- 
uously every year. In reality Shoebank is about fifty 
miles from this, but if it were at the antipodes she could 
not make a greater fuss than she does about going there. 

“ One can understand that. I told you she was deli- 
cious,^^ murmured Mrs. Amyot. 

Mrs. Vyner, crossing the sward indolently, comes up to 
her. 

“ I have been playing tennis,^^ she says, mournfully, 
with all the air of one who has been sacrificing herself for 
her country's good. 

“ Impossible! Why, you look as cool as a snowdrop,^^ 
put in Captain Staines, looking up at her from his loung- 
ing position on the grass. 

“ Do I?^^ Her tone is of that order of indifference that 
might be termed insolent. 

“ A charming compliment,^^ says Mrs. Amyot, smiling 
at Staines. Her smile is soft and kindly, she being one of 
those women who very, very seldom fiown on any man. 

But as to your playing — turning to Mrs. Vyner, who 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 131 

has sunk as if exhausted on the seat near her — who did 
you ^t to do it for you?^^ 

“Freddy Trant, of course. You know I never play 
with any one else. He does all the serving, and takes 
every ball.-’^ 

“ Useful boy! And what did you do?^^ 

“ I told him how good it was of him,^^ lisps Mrs. Vyner, 
calmly. “ So it was.^^ 

“ I wonder how you managed the standing, says Hal- 
kett. “ Did you lean on Captain Trant, or did you do it 
alone?” 

“ Alone I did it,^^ returns Mrs. Vyner, with a sigh. “ It 
tired me horribly, but no one' should live entirely to them- 
selves. Mr. Goldie told us that last Sunday. IVe been 
living to Freddy, and it has.brought me to death^s door.^^ 

“ I dare say you will rally here,^^ asys Lord Primrose; 
“ the air is very mild.'^ 

“ Was there ever so charming a bit of garden?” exclaims 
Mrs. Amyot, with unaffected enthusiasm. “ It makes one 
feel so far away from everything. I should like to steal 
it.” 

“As it stands, or without its present occupant?” asks 
Halkett, in a low tone. 

“ Without.” 

“ And not one single exception?” 

“ One only!” with a tender smile. 

“Ah! And that?” 

‘ ‘ The Dachshund yonder. ^ ^ 

“ Some day you will drive me to suicide,” says Halkett, 
with melancholy foreboding. 

“Beyond this garden there is another almost equal to . 
it,” cries Margery, throwing a rosebud into Mrs. Amyot^s 
lap to catch her attention. “Will you come and see it? 
A year ago it was lovely. It must be lovely still.” 

“ No, no. I am surfeited with happiness here. I shall 
not tempt fate further. You see a strange thing in me — 
a contented woman! Find another companion in your 
ramble. ” 

“ Try me. Miss Daryl,” says Captain' Staines, springing 
to his feet. In spite of the gayety of his air, there is some- 
thing anxious about it. Some fine instinct tells him that 
Margery both dislikes and distrusts him, and, for the fur- 


133 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


therance of his plans, it seems to him of special im23ortance 
that he should combat her prejudice. 

“ Every one can come/^ returns Margery, very slowly, 
regarding him with cold unfriendly eyes. “ It is but a lit- 
tle place, and I do not think it would suit you. It is 
nothing but a small wilderness of sweets. It would, I im- 
agine, bore you.'’^ 

“You have, I fear, but an indifferent opinion of my 
artistic taste, said Staines, with an affectation of good 
humor, but a rising color. 

“ I really do not think, with gentle insistence, “ that 
you would care for it. “ But,-’^ looking round her, “ every 
one can come.^^ 

“ Every One! When I asked your permission to accom- 
pany you, I thought, perhaps — ^ 

“ Yes?’^ Her interruption, though quiet, is prompt. 
“ If you follow Mr. Belle w and me, you shall see for your- 
self all the beauties of which I have raved. 

She inclines her head slightly. It is a dismissal, and 
Staines very wisely takes it as such. Her whole air and 
manner has raised within him a sense of defiance of all rule 
and order, and crossing to where Lady Branksmere is sit- 
ting, he takes up a position behind her chair, and murmurs 
some gay commonplace in her ear. Muriel smiles politely. 
It is at this moment, when he is leaning over her in a 
rather empresse attitude, and she has turned a little in 
order to smile up at him, that Lord Branksmere enters the 
yew-garden. His eyes, that always in every assemblage seek 
. for Muriel, now pursue their customary search, and at last 
rest upon her — and Staines. 

A start, so imperceptible as to be only a thrill, runs 
through him, and a little ashen shade mingles with the 
natural bronze of his complexion. It is at this moment 
that Mme. von Thirsk slips her hand through his arm. 


CHAPTEK XIX. 

"Oh! he has passions which outstrip the wind, 

And tear her virtue up, as tempests root the sea. 

* . ){• * * * * 

. O dreary life, we cry. O dreary life.” 

“ Where have you been, my friend?’^ she asks smilingly. 
“ This is the coziest corner to be found anywhere, but 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 133 

doubtless you have been endeavoring to help the old people 
with their impossibles, according to the good nature that 
always distinguishes you. We have all been enjoying our- 
selves here more than it is possible to conceive in this pro- 
saic age.'’ ^ 

“ So it seems/^ says Branksmere, biting his lip. Invol- 
untarily his glance again seeks his wife’s seat, and an evil 
fire lights within his somber eyes. 

‘‘ Ah! I warned you of that,” says madame, with a sud- 
den little catch in her breath. “ But you would have none 
of my counsel.” She casts her beautiful hands abroad. 
There is a well-arranged sorrow, and an unutterable pity 
in her tone. “ It is not yet too late,” she whispers eagerly. 
“ Get rid of — liim,’ by an almost imperceptible gesture 
she indicates Staines, who is still leaning over Muriel. Per- 
haps she knows her man w'hen she says this. 

“ I will drive no one from my doors,” says Branksmere, 
doggedly. “ And — you misunderstand me, as I warned you 
before. It seems to me that you imagine that I distrust 
Lady Branksmere. Believe me, this is not so. Were it 
the case I should not seek to rescue her from temptation. 
I should not care to retain a wife on such terms. I should 
simply let her. go.” As he says this he turns his dark, in- 
scrutable eyes full on her. “ But I do not distrust. And 
once for all I forbid you to speak to me again in such a 
manner.” 

There is a suspicion of passion barely subdued in his 
tone. Mme. von Thirsk, hearing it, turns to him a face 
that has grown curiously white, but is yet full of repressed 
power. 

“ You, too, misunderstand me, Branksmere,” she says, 
in a low, vibrating voice. “ Am I to be ^dressed as 
though I were a common acquaintance after — all ? Dare I 
not speak one word of warning? I, the friend of ten long 
years? Am I nothing to you now — now that this woman 
of yesterday has dragged you into her silken coils that are 
all so falsely woven?” She clinches her hand. “ Nay, 
hear me — hear me!” she cries aloud, as with a stern de- 
termination he moves away. ‘‘If to me ungrateful, still 
for your oio7i sake be wise!” She takes a step toward him, 
hardly knowing herself, what a revelation is on her tongue 
in this impulsive moment. But he still persistently moves 
away, and the moment is passed. Another comes, but its 


134 


liADT BRANKSMERE. 


fruits are off a different tree. “ Go., tlien!^"' she whispers, 
in a tone that is almost a hiss. “ The day will come when 
you must listen 

She sinks back in her seat, and by a supreme effort re- 
covers her self-control. Her blood seems on fire. Lifting 
her eyes, she brings Staines to her side by an almost im- 
perceptible movement of her fan. By the time he reaches 
her, her hand is quite steady again, and her voice her slave 
once more. 

“You are a little rash — 'is it not?” she says to him, 
smilingly, drawing her skirt aside that he may take a seat 
upon her garden-chair. ‘ ‘ Monsieur can see ! Eyes have been 
given him that are of use, dull as your insular eyes usually 
are. As we have entered into a little friendly alliance, I 
think it my duty to vv^arn you.” 

“ You are an admirable ally.” Looking at her, Staines 
can see something about her that is not altogether calm. 
“ Jealous, is he? There is nothing strange in that, after 
all. Jealousy is not dependent upon love.” 

“Bethinks of his — honor returned she, the words 
coming from her in a sort of snarl. Her eyes are lowered, 
the blood has forsaken her lips. Staines shrugs his shoul- 
ders. After all; if she has serious cause for plaint, it is no 
affair of his, and will only make her the mdre useful in the 
little game he has decided upon playing. 

“ He behaved honorably enough to — her,” he says, in a 
subdued voice, gazing right and left with a careless air, 
that WiOuld have deceived the most suspicious watcher. “ I 
hear the settlements were princely.” There is something 
distinctly anxious about the glance that accompanies this 
last remark. 

“ I only know one thing about them for certain,” re- 
plies madame in a slow tone. “ He has settled a thousand 
a year upon her, absolutely. Nothing could deprive her of 
that. The twenty thousand was made over on her irre- 
spective of pin-money or anything else, before the mar- 
riage. It was not her doing, you will mind. It was his.” 

“ Twenty thousand. Absolutely,” says Staines, meditat- 
ingly. “ A generous arrangement.” A rather amused 
smile curves his lip beneath his long yellow mustache. 
“Because after all, one never knows what may happen! 
You are sure of this?” 

“ Quite sure. Were she to abuse his confidence to the 


LADY BRAKKSMEEE. 


135 


utmost — were she to commit the one unpardonable sin in 
married life — it would still be hers. Were she to — What 
is your plan?^^ cries she, fiercely, breaking off in the midst 
of her seemingly calm rejoinder, and growing terribly agi- 
tated. “ There is something diabolical in your face. What 
is your plan, your scheme? Give voice to it!” 

“ What plan should there be?^^ demands Staines airily, 
with a sudden movement of his body that throws up his 
shoulders and flings out his arm and expresses generally a 
half amused renunciation of the idea. “You hurt me 
when you say I look diabolical! Madness is a prerogative 
of mine. And would you call ours a scheme? There are 
two people whom we love. They are unhappy. We would 
rescue them from their bondage — we would lift the chains 
that drag them down. Do you call that a scheme? If so, 
it' is a pious one."’ ^ 

“It is a damnable one!^' replies the Hungarian, coldly. 
“ I do not defraud myself, if you do. 

“ This cold climate is- killing your suavity, madame,'' 
returns he, lightly. There is not an iota of compunction 
in his handsome, smiling face. 

“ Have you no remorse?^^ demands she. “ No misgiv- 
ings? No terror of the end?^^ 

“ No soul?^-’ supplements he, with an open derision. 
“ That is an efficient answer to all such questions.^ ^ He 
laughs aloud, and delicately flips a little passing speck of 
air-down from his coat. 

Madame ^s hand tightens on a fold of her gown, and then 
a laugh breaks from her, too; low, but reckless, and out of 
tune with all gentle sympathies. At this unpropitious mo- 
ment she lifts her head and gazes straight before her to 
where a little picture is being enacted as if for her special 
benefit. 

Branksmere is bending over MurieDs chair. He has evi- 
dently said something that is unpalatable, because on the 
instant Lady Branksmere rises and confronts him. 

As their eyes meet madame can see that a fury of re- 
pressed rage and hatred gleams from the eyes of each. 
Her laughter grows bolder as she turns he glance away 
from them back again to Staines. 

“ You are right, she says, feverishly. “ The present 
includes all things. She throws back her handsome head, 
and her great lustrous passionate eyes grow dazzling. 


136 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


‘‘ your plan!^^ she asks. I am prepared for it now. 
Let me have it.^^ 

You accord me powers I don’t possess,” returns 
Staines, with a malicious aHectation of modesty. I could 
not formulate a plan to save my life, but I confess to you 
that I should like to be of service to the woman I love. She 
is now unhappy. It seems to me her burden is greater 
than she can bear. Should it so happen that she should 
elect to let it fall from her, to fly from it with — Why, 
then — ’ 

‘‘Yes? Then?”. She is leaning toward him, ill-sub- 
dued excitement in her whole air. 

“ Well, then — By the bye, mad am e,” says he, in his 
pleasant, airy tone,” permit me to remind you that there 
are one or two people in this charming little nook besides 
ourselves, and that perhaps a degree less — shall we call it 
interest? Yes? — interest in this conversation on your part 
would be advisable. Ah! that is better. Well ‘ then ’ — 
was that where I stopped?” . 

“ Yes, yes. Go on,” desires she, with quickened breath. 

“ Then it seems to me that Lord Branksmere might 
readily sue for and obtain a divorce — and And himself once 
more in a position to wed — a woman in every way more 
suited to him.” 

His pause is accompanied by a look that says, plainer 
than words, “You!” but the word is not said nevertheless. 

“ An admirable plot,” replies madame, after a moment 
or two. . She has grown very pale. “ But there is such a 
thing as failure.” 

“ Is there? I don’t believe it,” replies he, lightly. 
“ All I want is a little help; your help. If you want a 
flrst lesson,’ ’ rising as he speaks to let her understand the 
interview has lasted long enough for safety, “ learn this. 
She has already done you the honor to be jealous of you.” 

He smiles until he shows all his white teeth, makes her 
a little courteous bow, and strolls away jauntily across the 
clean-shaven sward. Branksmere had disappeared, and, 
with an air of suppressed melancholy, he once again ap- 
proached Muriel. 

“You look tired,” he says, presently,^ when the man 
who had been speaking to her has moved away. His tone 
is full of solicitude, and of that nameless air of mingled 
reverence and reproach he. reserves alone for her. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


137 


My face is for once, then, an index to my mind. I 
am tired, bored rather.^'’ She speaks petulantly. The 
touch of gloomy anger that had despoiled the fairness of 
her features when firanksmere had spoken of her still lin- 
gers. 

“ Your sister spoke of a little paradise that exists some- 
where near this. Will you come and look for it? Exercise 
will kill your enmn,” suggests he, gently. ^ 

For a moment she hesitates. Then, rising, moves away 
beside him in the direction of a little iron gate overhung 
with trailing ivy that leads to some quaint region beyond. 
In silence they go until the murmur of the’* voices they left 
behind grows faint and indistinct, and fades presently into 
the babble’ of the tiny rushing streamlet that greets them 
as they turn a rocky corner. 

It is«a charming spot they have reached — silent, calm, 
idyllic. The little river tumbling over its pebbles makes 
music at their feet. 

It made such a noisS as it ran, • 

Accordant with the birdies harmony, 

Methought it was the beste melody 
That might be heard of any man.” 

Muriel, as if wearied, sinks upon a mossy couch, and 
gazes with half unseeing eyes upon the laughing water. 
Her heart is full of gall! an angry fire burns within her 
veins. A sudden wild longing for revenge upon the man 
whom she believes has married her only to dishonor her, is 
withering every womanly feeling in her heart. 

‘‘ Tour sister was right,'" says Staines, seating himself 
beside her. It is a spot worthy of the truest admira- 
tion." 

‘‘ It is a little uncultivated bit of nature," returns she, 
dryly. ‘‘ We are so hedged about and trimmed and twist- 
ed into shape nowadays, that we persuade ourselves that a 
forgotten spot like this is more worthy of regard than it 
really is. What is it, after all?" looking depreciatingly 
around her. ‘‘A little three-cornered afiair, decked out 
with a moss-grown rose, a noisy stream, and a twilight 
effect caused by a few giant firs in the background. We 
are so clever, we mortals of to-day, that given a good man 
or two, with any eye to artistic joinings, I don't see why we 
should not manufacture just such another piotui’esque angle 
in the course of a few weeks. " 


138 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. 


“ It fails to please you?^^ regretfully. 

‘‘ On the contrary, it pleases me very much. 

“ Is it out of harmony with you, then?^^ 

‘‘It is I who am out of harmony with it, with most 
things, declares she, impatiently. 

Staines glances at her from under his lowered eyelids. 
She is looking straight before her as though brooding over 
some hateful, if distant, thought, and seems lost to a sense 
of his presence. She has let one of her gloves fall from 
her — a long, slender, dainty thing, sweet with the impres- 
sion of the beautiful hand it has covered, and Staines, lift- 
ing it from the ground, lays it on his knee, and softly, ten- 
derly smooths out the fingers of it, one by one. His 
manner up to this, if slightly tinged with melancholy, has 
been prosaic and commonplace in the extreme, but this 
action of his is replete with all a lover^s tenderness. 

“ I wish I might do something for you,^^ he says, at last. 

“Forme?^’’ His tone has roused her from passionate 
reverie, and turning she sees him smoothing out the gloved's 
creases with a lingering worshipful hand. The sight' seems 
to anger her. She frowns impetuously, “ What is it that 
you could do for me?^^ she asks, with a touch of hauteur 
in voice and eyes. 

“ Many things,^ ^ replies he, evenly, changing his mean- 
ing deftly. “ I could go to the house and get you some 
cologne water; or, if I might be allowed to advise, I could 
tell you that a little of that cool stream there, if applied to 
the forehead, would alleviate a bad headache. 

His answer is so entirely different to what she expected, 
that it not only rouses but relieves her. 

“There is no remedy for a really bad one,^^ she says, 
accepting his reading of her mood with a sort of inward 
gratitude. “It seems to me that mine will endure for- 
ever. Her laugh is a little dreary. “ That is what all 
people think when they are in pain, is it not? A mere 
morbid fancy that dies with the suffering. 

“ I do not care to think of you as being either morbid, 
or in pain,^^ replies Staines, in a low tone, without liJting 
his eyes from the glove he is slowly caressing. “ And 
sometimes of late I have imagined your mind was 
troubled.'^ 

“ I am not exempt from trouble, if you mean that.^^ 

‘'I wish I could be of any use to you at all,^^say8 


LADY BKAi^KSMERE. 


139 


Staines, in a matter-of-fact tone, that, considering the situa- 
tion, is reassuring, and therefore trebly insidious. “ If 
ever I can help you in any small way, please remember 
that we are friends, at least. 

She makes no direct answer to tliis, but presently, with- 
out removing her gaze from the distant hills, she speaks 
to him. 

“ Already you have helped me,/^ she declares, gently. 
‘‘ It was you who directed my footsteps to this place, and 
it seems to me to be very good to be here. I feel calmed, rest- 
ed, in spite of all my slighting words of a few minutes 
since. 

Her tone has grown somewhat dreamy. She is leaning 
back against the lichened rock behind her, and a transient 
glory from the departing sun has settled on her head — her 
small shapely head with its wealth of bronze-red tresses. 
Through the leaves of the dense trees the fading beams are 
piercing, lighting up the strange weird beauty of her face, 
her deep melancholy eyes, and the mournful curves of her 
sad, haughty lips. Gazing at her and marking the loveli- 
ness of her, a curious thrill runs through Staines — if Ms 
should be the hand to lay that small, proud head low in the 
dust of shame, what will the dread future hold for him, for 
her? How will it be between these two in all the long, in- 
terminable after years? Again that strange, nervous fore- 
boding oppresses him; that sense of fear that still has noth- 
ing in it of honest compunction or growing remorse. It is 
at. an end almost immediately. He shakes it from him 
with a shrug of self-contempt and turns to her. 

‘‘ You like being here, then?^-’ he asks, in a low tone, 
that seems to fall in naturally with the hour and the scene. 

“ It means almost happiness,'^ returns she, with a deep 
sigh. Her voice is still dreamy, absent; her eyes, half-hid- 
den by her white, heavy lids, are looking into a tender 
past, or a future impossibly bright. Then all at once her 
mood changes. She comes back to her present with a 
start, and turns a questioning gaze on Staines. 

Tell me about Madame von Thirsk,^^ she says. I 
saw you talking to her just now. I confess I do not under- 
stand her myself, but you probably do. She is a friend of 
yours?'^ 

A friend? Ho,^’ returns Staines, promptly. He looks 
surprised, even a little shocked. “ I know almost as little 


140 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


of her as you do/^he goes on slowly. But I think I 
should distrust — dislike — He breaks off abruptly. 
‘‘ After all, I am scarcely in a position to judge. My 
knowledge of her — my opinion is based on such slight 
grounds that — 

“ That?^^ She leans toward him, and Staines rises pre- 
cipitately to his feet. 

“ Why will you press the matter?^ ^ he asks. ‘‘ It is all 
mere conjecture. I — a stranger to her and to — What 
should I know? and yet if I dared speak — if I dared give 
voice to the fear within me, I should say — heware of Ma- 
dame von Thirsk!'^ 


“ That is a strange word to use,^^ says Lady Branks- 
mere, coldly. What should I dread from any mortal 
thing? You speak in enigmas, and you expect me to fol- 
low you. But I can not.^^ 

‘‘ Perhaps you will not!” His agitation is not altogether 
feigned; she looks so lovely, yet so entirely alone, that his 
heart smites him through very pitv of her. There are 
moments,''^ he goes on hurriedly, when the truth of all 
this dawns upon me. When I see you loveless, sad, for- 
sahen! Oh, forgive me! the thought is sacrilege, and 
yet — ” He throws out his hands to her as though in a 
paroxysm of passion — as though in momentary forgetful- 
ness of the gulf that now divides them. “ Muriel! i/w- 
rielP^ he whispers, heart-brokenly. 

Lady Branksmere, taking a step forward, moves him 
aside with an imperious gesture. Her face is the color of 
death, but her eyes are brave and unflinching. 

‘‘It is time we returned to the others,” she says icily. 
“ We have been here too long already. ” 

She sweeps past him, and he follows her without another 
word. As they regain the crowded parterre beyond, they 
come upon a group or two, and Lady Branksmere, stop- 
ping to accost one of those who help to form them, Staines 
gets separated from her. From that group she passes to 
another, obhvious of the fact that she has one bare, white 
hand, and one black one until she finds herself suddenly 
face to face with Branksmere. 


‘‘ I am afraid you have lost your glove,” he says, in a 
low voice that vibrates with a terrible wrath. 

Thus addressed. Lady Branksmere glances down at her 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 141 

hands, and for the first time becoming aware of her loss, a 
slow rich crimson dyes her cheeks. 

‘‘ I have not lost it. I dare say I shall be able to find 
it,^^ slie says, rather uncertainly. 

“ Shall I ask Captain Staines to look for it? He was 
your latest companion. He may know something about 
it,’’"’ suggests Branksmere, liis gaze burning into hers. 

“ You are very good. But I beg you will not give your- 
self so much trouble,"'^ returns she, steadily. “ By and by 
I can myself ask him if he has seen it. ” 

Do r* The word is a command! It strikes upon 
Muriel, and sends her glance swiftly to his. Her large 
eyes, grown luminous in tliis fast-gathering twilight, are 
uplifted, and Branksmere, studying them with a heart 
overflowing with bitterest anger, can see that they are filled 
with unutterable contempt. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Doubt is the effect of fear or jealousy, 

Two passions which to reason gives the lie; 

For fear torments and never doth assist; 

And jealousy is love lost in a mist, 

Both hoodwink truth, and go to blind-man’s-buff,” 

Old Lady Primrose, with the prospect of the county ball 
and its attendant tortures before her for the following even- 
ing — tortures, however, she would not have skipped for 
worlds — had retired to bed, worn out by Miss Mumm^s hos- 
pitality. Most of the others have followed her example. 
Mrs. Amyot, indeed, who seldom cries for quarter, is still 
in the billiard-room having a last game with Lady Anne 
Branksmere, who is always good-natured, to keep her in 
countenance. A good many of the men have already 
sneaked off to the smoking-den, and are now in bliss, other- 
wise tobacco-clouds. Lord Branksmere, opening the library- 
door is startled to find it not empty, as he had supposed, 
but in occupation by his wife. 

She is standing on the hearth-rug with one arm upon the 
mantel-piece and a slender foot poised upon the fender-bar. 
She is gazing into the fire-place, but is evidently lost to all 
knowdedge of the fact that the fire has all but burned itself 
out, and that only a few charred and slowly dying embers 


142 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 


still remain. Where are her thoughts? How far have 
they wandered? She looks sad and uncertain, and as it 
seems to Branksmere very lonely. Through the room the 
chill of a night that creeps toward morning may be felt. 

“ The room is cold, says Branksmere abruptly. There 
is a touch of impatient pain in his tone. That little sense 
of loneliness that seems to hang upon her has hurt him in- 
expressibly. Going over to the hearth-rug, he pokes up 
thd cinders and draws them together, and begins to pile on 
thd still smoking ruins some wood and coals. Muriel sighs 
hdavily as one might who has been rudely awakened from 
^ sweet dream to an unblessed present. 

/ “/s the room cold? I did not feel it, "" she says, ab- 

sently. 

Branksmere, laying his fingers lightly over hers, is made 
aware that they are as cold as death. 

‘‘You are shivering,"" he declares, and, redoubling his 
exertions, soon drives the wood into a flame that gives the 
contagion to its neighbors, and sends a cheerful crackling 
blaze up the chimney. Muriel, though still absent in man- 
ner, seems conscious of the growing warmth and is grate- 
ful for it; she draws nearer and spreads out her slender 
hands over the sparkling flame. 

“You should remember the summer is still hardly come, 
and that the nights are cold,"" says Branksmere, with some 
concern. He pauses, and then, after a slight struggle with 
himself, goes on again. “ I may as well tell you,"" he con- 
tinues, with some difficulty and a considerable amount of 
awkwardness, “ that I regret the rudeness of my manner 
toward you this afternoon. "" 

“Yes!"" says Muriel, indiiferently, as though only half 
attending. “ I am very sorry you let it worry you. I had 
forgotten all about it. "" 

It has been to him so sore a remembrance during all 
these past hours that he now can not conquer the feeling 
of offense her evident carelessness had occasioned him. 

“ Of course I should not have taken it so for granted 
that— that— the glove was— in his possession at all,"" stam- 
mers Branksmere. He is indeed very honestly sorry for 
the part he has played, and has spent his time since in 
persuading himself that there was no occasion for him to 
play it. He has found a genuine pleasure in censuring 
hjnself for his hot haste in accusing her of wh^it it was 


LADY branks:meee. 


14a 


probable she was innocent. True she had changed color in 
a strange nervous fashion, but was not his brusque address 
sufficient to bring the angry blood to the cheek of any 
woman? And if it had been, as he for that mad, horrible 
moment believed, would she have had the effrontery to ap- 
pear before them all with one naked hand to testify, to 
call attention to her folly? Would a woman court scruti- 
ny on such an occasion? Would she parade her sorry 
deed? cry out upon tlie world to look and see? Would she 
not rather have removed the other glove too, so as to kill 
observation? And yet to hear her say it was not true! 
Only to hear her say it. How singularly silent she is. She 
has made no answer to his last remark. 

“You have got it back?^^ he asks, suddenly, starting at 
her. 

“ Ho. I know as much about it now as I did then. ” 

“ But you asked him about it?^^ His face has flushed, 
and though he despises himself for his own cowardice he 
can nqt bring himself to mention Staines^ name. 

“ No/^ indifferently. “ I never thought about it since. 

This is the strict truth. Her mind had been so taken up 
with present humiliation and tender past recollections, by 
wraths of to-day^s yielding, and mournful desires of her 
lost yesterday that she had fondly but vainly believed to 
be vanquished, that all remembrance of that luckless glove 
had slipped away from her. 

“ I am to understand then that you have made no search 
for it?^^ His expression has grown almost forbidding 
again, and his somber eyes are dark with passionate sus- 
picion. 

“Hone whatever.” She faces round upon him now 
with eyes as angry as his own. “ A moment ago you gave 
me to believe that you came here to offer me an apology 
for conduct that to many women would be unpardonable. 
Am I now to regard that apology in the light of a clear 
opening that was to give j'outhe chance of offering me fur- 
ther indignity? Is this generous or just? Can you find 
no bolder road to your attack than this trivial affair of a 
glove ?^^ 

“ Do you call it a trivial affair that breath of dishonor 
bliMiild touch you?^^ 

‘ Your tofic is an insult,” breathes she, with flasliing 
eye:-. * I to understand it.” 


144 


LADY BKAKKSMEKE. 


‘‘ You understand it sufficiently when you make me that 
answer. That my manner should surprise you is absurd. 
Do you believe it possible that I am the man to look tame- 
ly on, whilst you — 

“ You must be mad” interrupts she, in a low, vehement 
tone; “ mad, to speak to me like this! Do you think of 
nothing? Do you imagine me blind, or a fool? Do you 
not see whither you are urging me — or, lifting her hand 
to her brow with a horrified air, “is it that you do know? 
Stand back from me! Do not touch me!^^ Her horror, 
her passion, has risen to a height. She confronts him with 
clinched hands and heaving bosom, and a marble face, 
beautiful in its sternness and rigidity. 

To Branksmere her rush of words bear but a partial 
meaning. Of the fact that she suspects his friendship with 
Mme. von Thirsk, he is entirely in the dark. If a little 
calmer he would assuredly have been struck by the extreme 
excitement of her manner, but as it is, he is still carried 
along with the tempestuous stream of his own suspicions. 

“You tell me then deliberately that you do not know 
where your glove is!^^ he demands, imperiously. • 

“ I know nothing about it,'’^ returns she, in a stifled 
tone. Her passion is spent. Despair of her ruined life 
has again set in; her head sinks, her breath comes in long 
sad sighs. 

It is at this moment that the door is softly opened and 
Mme. von Thirsk comes softly in. 

% :k ^ 4c 4: 


CHAPTER XXL 

“ Smootli runs the water where the brook is deep. 
****** 

And many strokes, though with a little ax, 

Hew down and fell the hardest timber’d oak.” 

She has evidently been preparing her toilet for the ' 
night. Her dinner-gown has been cast aside, and instead 
of it she is now robed in a soft negligee costume of pale 
pink cashmere, half smothered in lace that hangs looselv 
round hQv pose figure, yet rati, suggc^is tbu. des it. It 
trails in pliant folds upon the '•arji'-'i, a. id is so iu- drawn 
backward that her pretty shoe . ( f p’ush : un h di.?.- 


LADT BRANKSMEKE. 


145 


tinctly seen. A heavy collar of yellowed Mechlin lace 
falls away from her fair, round pillar of a throat, and her 
dusky hair is coiled upward into a high knot at the back 
of her head that suits to perfection its strictly classical 
shape. There is a touch of warm, living beauty about her 
that makes itself felt, and brings Muriel, with an angry 
sense of rivalry, to a calmer state of mind. 

In madame^s hand is a little dainty lamp, of the exquis- 
ite Etruscan form, that sends up a lambent flame and il- 
lumines and throws out the mystic shadows of her eyes and 
the purity of her dark penciled brows. She starts a little 
on seeing Muriel and Lord Branksmere, as though she had 
supposed them miles away, and then smiles genially. 

“I had no idea there was any one here,^^ she begins, 
with a careful hesitation that takes the place of the blush 
she fain would have produced, but can not. They told 
me every one was in bed or in the smoking-room, so I stole 
down here to look for my book. I have mislaid it again. 
My books — with a little laugh — “ seem to be specially 
iirtful. They have acquired a trick of hiding themselves 
from me. 1 am always losing them.'’^ She has rattled all 
this off very gayly. 

“You do, indeed, seem singularly unfortunate in that 
respect, returns Lady Branksmere, stonily. “ Can I help 
you to look for it? Is this it?^^ 

“ You have found my truant for me? Ah, that is very 
kind. Do you know I was on my way to your room just 
now? I did not know that you and your husband,^'’ with 
a charmingly comprehensive little nod at- Branksmere, who 
is looking black as midnight, “ were enjoying a cozy little 
tete-a-tete here all by yourselves 
She beams sympathetically on them both, as though to 
tell them she is quite en rapport with the lover-like senti- 
ments she is sure they entertain, one for the other. She 
seems happily blind alike toMurieEs cold stare and Branks- 
mere^s poorly suppressed ill-temper Her manner maddens 
Muriel. 

“You wished to see me?^^ she says, in an icy tone, that, 
however, fails to chill the effervescing madame. 

“ For a moment only. To do you a little service; you 
have done me one,^^ with a graceful glance at the recovered 
br/ok. “ Now,^^ playfully, “I shall recompense you. See!'^ 
She draws out from her pocket the long black glove that 


146 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


Muriel had dropped in that little sylvan retreat where she 
had passed so tranquil an hour with Staines. 

“I have rescued it for you/^ cries madame, archly. 
‘‘ Captain Staines was very unwilling to part with it, let 
me tell you, but I gained it by strategy. Right triumphed 
over might this time, at all events. I sought my oppor- 
tunity. I lay in wait, and came off victor in the end.^^ 

Her tone is quite amazingly playful. Even Branksmere 
might have been struck by the excessive gayety of it had 
not his mind been too deeply pierced by other suspicions, 
born, or rather confirmed, by her words. So, then, Staines 
had been in possession of the missing glove all along. He 
had even objected to give it up. By Thekla’s own con- 
fession she had been obliged to resort to stratagem to res- 
cue it Who but a lover would set such store by a wom- 
an’s glove? A lover! 

His dark eyes grow furious, his lips white. Muriel then 
had deceived him, not unintentionally, but willfully. That 
swift deep crimson blush- Of hers that has lived in his 
memory ever since, had had its meaning — its auilt ! It 
was not, as he had tried to believe, the fiush of righteous 
indignation, but the quick coloring of fear. She had, too, 
purposely misled him, she had assured him she would ask 
back the glove from Staines, supposing him to have it. 
But she had not done so. She had, perhaps, been happy 
in the thought that something belonging to her was in his 
possession. Something! Was he not, indeed, the master 
of all? Her heart — her soul — -the love for which he, her 
husband, had sought and toiled in vain? Were all things 
torn aside and the plain truth laid bare, should it not be 
shown that he, Branksmere, was the usurper, and that 
other the rightful heir? 

His face has grown very gray, and his mustache is twitch- 
ing in a nervous excitable way. Madame is still smiling; 
but her eyes are keen beneath their mask of pleasantry, 
and her glance travels swiftly from one to the other of 
those before her. 

Muriel, if inwardly a good deal shocked at the turn 
events have taken, shows outwardly no faintest trace of 
surprise, or anger, or any lesser emotion. That Staines 
should have kept her glove is a revelation to li^•t, 
causes her some astonishment, as she^was honestly 
rant of the fact that he had kept it. But that he should 


LADY BEAKKSMERE. 


147 


have stolen it, only to let it be returned to her in this care- 
less public way, surprised her still more. If all this is 
true, he had acted absurdly in the first instance, and rep- 
rehensibly in the last. That he should by any means 
have let it slip into the possession of a woman against whom 
he had so lately warned her seems strange, and a swift 
fancy that it is all a mere fabrication of madame's brain 
rises within her. The strongest feeling she knows at the 
moment is a sense of indignant anger against the smiling 
handsome creature before her, who with a laugh upon her 
lips is striving to make havoc of her life. After all, Staines 
might have innocently brought home the glove and then 
fiung it on some table or ottoman that it might be seen and 
claimed by its rightful owner; it would have been a wiser 
thing to give it to herself in person; but still this might 
have been; and this designing woman, seeing in part, and 
guessing in part, had made up this plausible story out of 
it all for her discomfiture and her husband^s delectation. 
A bitter laugh rises in her throat. Well! let them con- 
coct as many stories as they please. The fact that her 
glove was found in any man^s possession will not take her 
into a divorce court or set her husband free. 

You have given yourself an infinity of unnecessary 
trouble, I am afraid, she says, fixing her eyes meaningly 
upon madame. “ There is nothing even to be gained by 
it — as,"’"’ pointing to the glove, ‘‘ I have lost its fellow, and 
shouldnH have cared therefore if Captain Staines had kept 
it forever. 

“ Its fellow? Perhaps Captain Staines has that, too,'^ 
cries madame, with a soft, amused laugh. ‘‘ One must 
confess that he is persistent. Ah, the deceitful one, to 
pretend he had only this little glove as treasure trove 

Branksmere, with a smothered ejaculation, comes up to 
his wife. 

‘‘ Has he the other?^^ he asks, in a low, but terrible 
voice. The veins on his forehead are standing out in thick 
cords. 

Lady Branksmere laughs insolently. 

Madame von Thirsk is an excellent detective. Ask 
her, ” she says, lifting her brows and letting her lips fall 
into a disdainful curve. 

Answer me!’^ fiercely. 

I shall give an answer to no man who addresses me 


148 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


in tliafc tone. Do not mistake me, my lord. I am not 
your slave. 

You lied to mo before,^ ^ says Branksmere. Perhaps 
it is as well you do not answer, lest you lie to me again. 

Muriel turns livid. She leans back heavily against the 
table and glares at him. 

‘‘ Coward she pants, between her clinched teeth. 

Branksmere, turning abruptly, leaves the room. All 
that has passed between him and Muriel has been uttered 
in tones so low that any one desirous of not hearing might 
easily pretend ignorance of having overheard a word Ma- 
dame now, with a softly spoken good-night, moves toward 
the lower door as Branksmere disappears through the up- 
per, but Muriel stops her. 

“ Stay,^^ she said, in a clear, authoritative voice, I 
want a woi-d with you.'^ 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ There was a laughing devil in her sneer,” 
****** 

“A HUNDRED if you will, dear Lady Branksmere,^ ^ 
murmurs the Hungarian, suavely. She turns, and coming 
back to the center of the room, drops gracefully into a chair. 
It is a chair that places a table between her and Muriel. 

‘‘Your motive?'^ demands Lady Branksmere, curtly, 
wheeling round upon her. She is very pale, and her rather 
squarely shaped mouth is hard and stern. 

. “ Motive? I?^^ Thekla von Thirsk's handsome face 
expresses the most unmitigated astonishment. “ But how 
then? I do not understand. 

“ Exert that marvelous brain of yours a little, and per- 
haps you may. What brought you here to-night, where 
you knew Lord Branksmere and I were alone, with that 
remarkable little invention of yours? Speak, and quickly, 
for I will know.'’^ • 

“ You shall certainly know anything 1 have to tell you,^^ 
repliea madame, with a simple dignity that seems to bring 
out and heighten the subdued passion of the other, and 
drag it into an unenviable light. “ It seems to me that I 
must have distressed you in some way. But I know noth- 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


149 


ing. I am entirely ignorant. If you would give me an 
idea, a hint.^^ 

“ No. Hints where you are concerned are valueless. I 
have learned that, returns Lady Branksmere, with a cold 
sneer. “ You will speak without help from me.’’^ 

‘‘ All this is very perplexing,'’^ exclaims madame, quite 
miserably. Then, as though some sudden light has broken 
in upon her: “ A.h, pardon me! Forgive me!^^ she cries, 
eagerly, ‘‘ if what I now imagine is wrong, but — but was 
there some mystery connected with that glove, and has 
mine been the luckless hand to betray it? Siould Captain 
Staines then have been left in undisputed possession of 
it? Ah, how unhappy I am! Dear Lady Branksmere, at 
least do me the justice to believe that my wretched inter- 
ference was unmeant. I knew not there was anything be- 
tween you and — 

‘‘ How dare you talk to me like this?^^ cried Muriel, ve- 
hemently, trembling from head to foot. ‘‘ Anything be- 
tween me and Captain Staines! What should there be? 
What scandal are you striving to create?’-’ 

‘‘It might suggest itself that it is you who are creating 
the scandal,” returns madame, with a curious glance at v 
her. “ For me, I had not dreamed of such a thing; and 
am only too glad (now that you have forced the suspicion 
upon me) to know from your own lips that no such thing 
exists.-” 

“Glad!” says Lady Branksmere, with a bitter sneer. 
Her strong slender fingers close with unpleasant force upon 
the book near her, move it to and fro for a moment or so, 
and then cast it from her as if by an uncontrollable im- 
pulse. All the time her eyes are fixed immovably upon 
madame, and her breath is coming and going through her 
parted lips in short, impatient sighs. “ There is only one 
thing sweeter than the hearing of an evil tale of one’s ac- 
quaintance,” she goes on presently, “ and that is the being 
able to bring one’s self honestly to believe in it. I am afraid 
your joy is checkered. Do you quite believe?” 

“ I do not follow you; you talk to me in so strange a 
fashion. All I can imagine is, that I have hurt you in 
some unknown way, either through this stupid glove or 
Captain Staines. And as for him, why should I seek to 
harm him? He has even been both kind and attentive to 


150 


LADT BRANKSMEKE. 


me. I think him altogether charming/ ^ lifting her eyes 
to gaze straight at Muriel. 

“ Do you? You want, perhaps, to know my opinion, 
with a calm show of open contempt. “ There is really no 
reason why you should not. She pauses for a moment as 
though considering. Madame is looking decidedly inter- 
ested, and a pale smile widens MurieTs lips. “ I think 
him good-looking,^^ she says, at last, dropping the insipid 
remark slowly, as if the more to enjoy the other ^s disap- 
pointment. 

Ah! Your tone makes your judgment harsh,” says 
madame, appai’ently unmoved, though her lips droop and 
her mouth tightens. It is a regret to her that she can have 
nothing to repeat to either side. “ You compel me to 
think you see nothing in him beyond his appearance, which 
is undeniably good. Yes, you are severe. What has he 
done to you?” Her tone — her glance — is innocence itself, 
yet so full of a subtle insolence. 

‘‘ Done to me!^^ repeats Lady Branksmere, coldly, who 
after all is hardly a match for her. “ You are, it seems to 
me, one of those who find all the world alike, until one 
shows him his uncivil side. You refuse to praise the bridge 
you can not cross, however safe others may know it to be. 
Your likes and dislikes are bound up in a very personal 
center. It is a doctrine, sound if narrow. I,^^ with a 
short glance, “ am far less amiable than you.^^ 

“ Perhaps,^ ^ suggests madame, with lowered eyes, and in 
a slow, measured tone, “ you are even more amiable. Per- 
haps, indeed, you have proved yourself a little too amiable!^' 
The insult conveyed is even heightened by her method- 
ical delivery of it, by the total q^bsence of passion in voice 
and manner. Lady Branksmere turns cold; she shrinks 
back, and then draws herself up to her full height, as might 
an offended queen. 

‘‘You are a very daring woman she says, almost in a 
whisper. “ It may be — even a little too daring — for your 
own good! Is your position in this house so secure that 
you can afford to make an enemy of its mistress?'^ 

A touch of despair that lies heavy on her heart tells her 
that she herself has hinted at the truth, that this woman's 
position in the household is unassailable. 

“ How am I to translate such a speech?*" asks madame, 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 151 

Opening wide her fine eyes. “ Are you, then, my enemy? 
But why? What is it, then, that I have done?^^ 

Lady Branksmere pales and turns her head from side to 
side impatiently. The very directness of the appeal baffles 
her. How is she to make reply? How is she to explain to 
this woman that she is jealous of her influence over her 
husband? Nay, death itself would be preferable. 

“ Are you my enemy ?^^ persists madame, looking boldly* 
at her. Something about her suggests the idea that she is 
thoroughly enjoying the situation. 

“ You have run too fast wilh my words, says Muriel, 
slowly. “I did not so much say that, as that it will be 
impolitic of you to make me one. ” 

“ Ah, but it is my nature to be so open, so candid. I 
am ever impolitic,’^ cries madame, regretfully. What I 
think, that I say. It is a fault, a grievous one, but what 
will you? Out it all comes before I have a moment in 
which to reflect; just as it happened to-night — ah!^^ stop- 
ping herself abruptly, as though horrified. “ There I go 
again. 

‘‘ To-night? go on, what about to-night? What did you 
say to-night that should not be said?^^ 

‘‘ Something tells me that I shall have to get some good 
doctor to cut out my tongue,^^ says madame, mournfully. 

‘‘ It will not be reasonable. You tell me to avoid making 
myself your enemy. But how, then, am I to do it? I 
know of nothing that has been said by me that should have 
offended you, and yet you are angry with me. Will you 
give me a little idea that in future may help me to steer 
clear of all conversational shoals and quicksands?^ ^ 

All the time she is speaking there is a touch of amuse- 
ment in the Hungarian's eyes that is plain to Muriel, how- 
ever carefully the other tries to hide the tell-tales with her 
sweeping lashes. It is an expression of triumphant defi- 
ance that makes Lady Branksmere' s blood grow hot within 
her. 

“ I will," she says, coldly. “ In future forget that I 
exist. Leave me out of your plans, 3mur intrigues." She 
comes a little nearer to her. “ I have detained you too 
long already, madame. Pray, do not let me keep you 
another moment from your room." 

She salutes her with studied politeness; madame returns 
the salutation in kind, and, taking up her Etruscan lamp. 


152 


LADY BEANKSMEKE. 


glides from the apartment. The book, however, she has 
been so anxious to obtain is left behind her, forgotten! 

Lady Branksmere, as she sees it, smiles softly to herself. 
To her this want of memory tells its own tale, and again 
her pulses throb with angry contempt. For hours she 
paces up and down the deserted library, unconscious of 
the ever-growing fatigue — the increasing strain that is 
weakening both her soul and body. Taking herseK to task 
for this thing, and encouraging bitter resentment in her 
heart for that — piecing together all the trivial events of the 
day and night, and working them into one inharmonious 
whole. 

Doors throughout the house are open and shut during 
her vigil — that of the smoking-room has been given its last 
slam. Voices have sounded through the hall as the men 
passed through, on their way to different apartments, and 
one or two careless laughs have penetrated to where she is 
walking up and down, friendless, alone, eating her heart 
away. 

And now, at last the house has sunk into a calm, a quiet, 
a deadly silence, that momentarily seems to grow more in- 
tense, and winds up her already shattered nerves to almost 
fever pitch. The fire has gone out for the second time, 
and the cold, clear light of the still May morn is stealing 
through the closed curtains, putting to shame the lamps 
within, that indeed are now beginning to burn low. 

Muriel, flinging wide the window, gazes out upon the 
widening landscape. Sadly, reluctantly, comes up the 
holy dawn. The moon is still alight in the heavens, and a 
strange sweeping wind is rushing down from the hill-tops 
with an angry sighing. But still the darkness is conquered. 
“ Day’s foot is set upon the neck of night,” and over all 
the sky is creeping a shadowy gray. 

The unquiet soul within, gazing out on all the tremulous 
beauty, grows sad with vainest longing. To her the calm 
sweet break of day brings only grievous regret — the con- 
trast betvveen it and the sullen storm that still rages in her 
breast — the inward crying for the return of that old past 
life which she by her own act destroyed and bereft of 
’vaguest flavor, is almost too painful to be borne. She 
closes the window with a little shudder, and moves with 
languid steps toward the door. 

She gains the hall, and traverses like one in a dream the 


r 


LADY BRAKKSMESfir 


153 


wide marble staircase, that now looks grim and ghastly in 
the stern light of the coming dawn. The statues in the 
niches, as she goes along, peer out at her, looming dark 
and forbidding, showing just enough of themselves to assure 
the trembling passer-by that they bear human shape, and 
may be therefore dreaded as possible enemies lurking in 
hidden corners to seize and devour the unwary. 

Muriel shivers nervously, and a little thrill of positive 
fear runs through her. She hastens her footsteps, and as 
she comes to the last marble figure, an Ajax, breaks into a 
veritable run that carries her past it and well into the mid- 
dle of the long gallery before she pauses to recover her 
breath. 

All here is cold, and still, and dreary. The moonlight 
is still struggling in mortal combat with the day, and 
through the many windows is casting a last flood of glory 
over everything. Sometimes a passing cloud dims its dying 
radiance, and now, as Muriel finds herself opposite the 
tapestry curtain that conceals the door leading to the apart- 
ments of the dowager, and those forbidden ones beyond in 
the haunted wind — there comes to her a sound through the 
ghostly silence of the night that turns the blood to water 
in her veins! 

“ Great Heaven! What is it?^^ Lady Branksmere, 
huddling close against the wall nearest to her, listens with 
bated brea.th and frozen lips for the repetition of it. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 

Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein.” 

Slowly it comes! now rising, now falling, now uplifting 
itself into a sharp scream! It rings through the gray 
dawn; a low wailing at the first, and then an unearthly 
sobbing as of a spirit bound; and always a cry that clings 
and pierces to one^s very soul. Again and again it sounds 
with muffled force upon the ear. Muriel, shocked, terri- 
fied, quite benumbed with the horror of a first supei:stition, 
can scarcely breathe. The housekeeper's tale of that dead 
and gone Lady Branksmere — who had flung herself from 
the turret window, in the mysterious rooms beyond, and 


154 


LADY BRANESMEEE. 


whose spirit it was believed came on windy, moonlight 
nights, to cry aloud for vengeance on her oppressors — recurs 
to her with appalling clearness, and strikes her cold with 
fear. 

Her breath -comes to her in long, low gasps, and her 
hands, cold and leaden, hang helplessly by her sides. The 
moments pass, and noiv the horrible sounds are stilled, and 
a silence even more terrible takes possession of the startled 
night. Unable to bear it, Muriel rouses herself, and, pale 
and haggard with heartfelt dismay, makes a rush for her 
own room. Before she can reach it the weird, half-stifled 
sound breaks forth again, and almost at the same instant 
Branksmere, only partly dressed and looking white and 
worried, steps from his own room into the corridor. 

Muriel runs to him! For the first time in all their 
knowledge of each other she is unfeignedly glad to see him. 
She lays her hand upon his arm, and seems absolutely to 
cling to him in the agony of her nervous terror. She has 
apparently forgotten all save that. 

‘‘ What is it?^^ she gasps. What has happened? 
Speak, Branksmere, speak.^^ Will she ever hear the 
human voice again? 

“ It is a fresh attack, replies he, hastily. ‘‘ She — the 
— the dowager, is growing worse, I fear. The fits are 
severer, more frequent. His agitation seems extreme. 
“ Do not delay me. 

He lifts her hand from his arm, and would have hurried 
past her but for the glimpse he gets of her face. He 
pauses, and gazes at her keenly in the uncertain light. 

“ Where have you been all this time ?^^ h.e asks. “ Why, 
you are still dressed! Down in that cold room?^^ 

'“Yes — yes. But never mind that. What is the matter 
with her? What an awful cry. Is she in pain — in grief? 
Yet it did not sound like pain — like — \\\i^ madness rather!’^ 

She stands before him trembling and shivering. 

“A fit!’^ replies he, shortly. “ Forget it as soon as you 
can; it need not concern you. Go to bed at once; this is 
no hour for you to be up. I believed you asleep long ago.^^ 

Ilis! manner, though scarcely Unkind, is still authorita- 
tive; bu* Muriel, spent as she is in mind and body, fails to 
notice it. 

“ You are sure it is the dowager?^^ she asks him, faintly, 
her thoughts still running on that bloody tale of woe relat- 


LADY BKANKSMEEE. 


155 


ed to her by Mrs. Stout, her mind^s eye fixed, with an ob- 
stinate pertinacity, upon the mangled remains of that un- 
fortunate Lady of Branksmere, as they must have been 
when found next morning lying cold and broken on the . 
court-yard, pa\ ed with its cruel stones. 

Had she been thinking less of this direful story, and 
more of Branksmere, she might have noticed the change 
that had passed over his countenance as her question fell 
from her lips. He starts violently. 

“ Who else should it be?^^ he demands, with a yehe- 
mence disproportionate to the mildness of ner query. 

What absurd ideas are you getting into your head now? 
Get some sleep, I tell you; the day is dawning.'’^ He goes 
away from her a step or two, and then comes back again. 
“ You are shivering,^^ he says, half angrily, touching her 
hand. “ That absurd practice of yours of sending your 
maid to bed at twelve, whether you are present or absent, 
leaves you without a fire.^^ 

He moves into a clearer bit of h'ght, and consults his 
watch. 

“It is now three. I donT suppose there is a spark 
left,^^ he growls, impatiently. “ No matter how unhappy 
one may be, it is a hetise to kill one's self. Go into my room 
for a while. There is a good fire there, and warm yourself 
for a moment or two." 

“lam not so cold as you think. I shall," with a little 
scornful glance, “ probably live through the night. I am 
tired only; worn out. I want to go to bed." The dark 
circles beneath her heavy eyes bear witness to that. 

“ 1 would advise you to look at my fire a bit, neverthe- 
less " 

“ No, thank you. " 

“ What an obstinate woman you are," cries he, sudden- 
ly. “ You would, I believe, rather freeze to death than 
accept a comfort at my hands. Be reasonable — go to my 
room. I swear to you," bil^terly, “I shall not intrude 
upon you there. I shall probably not see it again for 
hours." 

Following upon his words comes again that awful cry 
that strikes them both dumb. It trembles — rushes through 
the gallery with a faint horrible clearness, and then dies 
away. 

“ Go, go," cries Muriel, in a choked tone. “ Why do 


156 


LADY BDAITKSMEKE. 


you delay? No. I will not go to your room. Let this 
decision of mine end the discussion.'^ ^ 

“ As you will/^ returned he, shrugging his shoulders, 
and striding away from her into the darkness beyond. 
Muriel tired and saddened, goes to her own room, but has 
scarcely locked the door when a knock sounds upon one of 
the panels. 

‘^Open!^^ says her husband^ s voice, irritably. 

“ What is it you want?^^ asks she, wondering. Her 
hesitation evidently creates in him a deeper sense of anger. 

“ Not to come in, certainly, he rejoins, in a tone that 
conveys a frown to the listener. ‘ ‘ Here — open quickly, I 
tell you — and take this from me. It is burning my 
fingers. 

Muriel flings wide the door to find him standing on the 
threshold with a huge burning log held between a tongs in 
one hand, and a coal-box full of red-hot cinders in the 
other. 

“ W^hat a thing for you to do!^^ cries Muriel, shocked. 
“ I wish — 

‘‘Let me get rid of it,” interrupts he, ungraciously. 
He brushes past her and deposits his cargo in the grate — 
first the burning log, than the hot coals on the top of it. 
They amalgamate instantly, and burst into a glorious 
flame. “There. Perhaps that will keep you from the 
consequences of your folly, he says, brusquely — “ your 
staying in a fireless room till morning was grown almost 
into day.^^ 

All at once his face changes, and a crimson flush dyes it. 
The calm light dies from his eyes, and a hot suspicion 
takes its place. 

“ Were you alone?^^ he asks in a terrible tone. 

She has sunk into a chair, and is sitting with her hands 
folded listlessly upon her knees. All the spirit seems gone 
out of her. 

“ Quite alone,^^ she answers, very gently. Then she 
looks up at him. “ Spare me any more insults for this one 
night at least,” she entreats feebly. “ I am so tired.” 

He turns aside from her abruptly, and, leaving the room, 
continues his way to the dowager^s apartments. 

The sun is well abroad before Muriel wakes. All the 
birds of the air are singing, and nature^ fresh and sweet, is 
crying aloud to the lazy ones of earth to come out and re- 


LADY BEAKKSMERE. 


157 


joice with it — a cry she disregards. It is, indeed, close on 
noon when she descends to the morning-room, only to find 
it deserted by all but Lady Anne Branksmere, who is 
idling over a set of charming etchings. 

“ Is your headache anything better?^ ^ asks she rising to 
greet her, with genuine kindness in her tone. She presses 
a gentle kiss upon MurieLs white cheek. ‘‘ Ah, .you do 
look ill! How foolish to struggle down-stairs so early with 
this momentous ball before you this evening, at which every 
one is bound to look her best lest the country swear. 
Come, let me establish you upon this lounge near the win- 
dow; turn your eyes from the light so, and lie still, whilst 
I finish this etching. 

Muriel, to whom Lady Anne is the most grateful creat- 
ure in the world, after Margery, accedes to her request, 
and though refusing the lounge sinks back thankfully in a 
delicious old arm-chair that could easily contain two of 
her, and closes her eyes against the light. 

But her thoughts forbid rest. 

‘‘ Anne,^^ she says, presently, leaning forward, ''what 
of this woman, this Madame von Thirsk?^'’ 

" Well, what?^^ asks Lady Anne, mildly, though in 
truth she is a little startled. 

" You should know a good deal of her. Tell me what 
you know.^^ 

Anne Branksmere, casting a shrewd glance at her, draws 
her own wise conclusions. 

. " There is so little to tell,^'’ she says, when with a steady 
hand she has put in a touch or two in her etching. " She 
is, to begin with, a Hungarian of good birth, with a con- • 
siderable fortune. Some time ago she became acquainted 
with the dowager. How, I hardly knovy, but she seems to 
have struck up a lasting friendship with her; became 
enamored with her charms, no doubt,-’ ^ with an amused 
shrug, " and has been devoted to her ever since. " F7a 
tout,” 

"With just the rest left out,” returns Muriel, deliber- 
ately. "You will not speak, then.^ You h’^e this 
woman 

" Do not mistake me. I would speak, believe me, were 
there anything to say, because I happen to like you bet- 
ter, ” says Lady Anne with quiet meaning. " But, I assure 


158 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


you, there is nothing, or, if there is, I am ignorant of it. 
Like her? Well, I hardly know — And you?^^ 

“ I detest her,' ^ coldly. 

“Now that I think it over, that scarcely surprises me. 

I have grown so used to her myself in all these years, you 
see, that I have forgotten to analyze my feelings with re- 
gard to her. Yet it seems natural enough to me that one, 
a stranger to her, might fail to see her in a rosy light. She 
has her virtues, nevertheless. She is a very angel to that 
hapless old skeleton upstairs who, you must acknowledge, 
is not exactly attractive either in appearance or manners. " 

“ That makes her devotion all the more remarkable." 

“ As I think I told you before, the intimacy between 
them began almost immediately after poor Arthur's tragic 
death. . About that time, too, the old lady became a victim 
to certain nervous attacks, brought on, they said, by the 
shock she sustained on hearing of her grandson's death. 
To me," says Lady Anne, thoughtfully, “ it is always a 
matter of wonder how she manages to still hold her worn- 
out threads of . life free of breakage, considering what an 
additional pressure these attacks must make upon it. It is 
seven years since poor Arthur died — therefore for seven 
years she has suffered from them. I never saw her in one, 
but I have been given to understand they are very distress- 
ing to witness. Yet madame has been faithful to that trial 
of friendship; she has carefully attended her all these 
years." 

“ Seven years! A long time," says Muriel, absently. 

“ You have been a widow all that time?" looking up at 
Lady Anne suddenly, with a surprised g^’avity. . “ I won- 
/\der you have never married." 

“ So do I," returns Lady Anne, frankly, with a slight 
laugh. “ But don't despair about me yet. I dare say I 
shall marry Primrose before I die. I am fond of that little 
man, and if the fact that he asks me regularly once a 
month to share his life means anything, I should say he is 
fond of me too. Yes, I really believe he loves me, and for 
myself alone you will be pleased to understand : I have 
really no money worth speaking about, and he has consid- 
erably more than is good for him, or that he quite knows 
what to do with." 

It is rather amusing to see how the tall, handsor Jirnr-. 
like woman revels in this thought and makes a poir-i of it* 


LADY BRAN’KSMERE. 


159 


She draws up her 'pose figure to its greatest height, and 
smiles pleasantly. She is evidently charmed with her con- 
quest of the little man, who would almost have fitted into 
her pocket. And yet I donH know,^^ she goes on, with 
a quick sigh. ‘‘ When I remember the past, and how good 
poor Arthur always was to me, I feel as if I should never 
marry again. 

“ Poor Primrose — it is sad that a shadow should be the 
means of depriving him of his desire,^ ^ says Muriel, slowly. 

If, in time, you do bring yourself to accept him, I shall 
regard him as one of the few fortunate ones of the earth. 

‘‘ I drop you a courtesy,^^ returns Lady Anne. ‘‘ But 
to return to our subject. I don^’t want you to encourage 
any erroneous’ views about madame. She is of inestimable 
value to that old woman above, and her place would be 
difficult to fill. Think what responsibility she lifts from 
your shoulders. I hear those attacks of the dowagePs are 
growing in strength daily. You would scarcely leave the 
miserable old creature entirely to the care of servants, and 
madame is such an excellent go-between. If I were you I 
think I should look upon her m the light of a special provi- 
dence. 

‘‘What of her husband? ^%'liad one?^^ asks Lady 
Branksmere — taking no notice of Anne^s last remark. 

“ Beyond any dispute. He was a respectable old — 
Eussian, I think it was — with nothing to be said for or 
against him. An amiable nonentity. He lived; he died! 
That is all. There was nothing in between.^"’ 

“ He really did die?’^ 

“ Oh, dear, yes; and rather early in the proceedings, I 
believe. (She is a bona-dde widow, there can be no doubt 
of that. Then very gently: “ If you want to get her out 
of the house, Muriel, why not speak to Branksmere about 
it? I should think the dowager discomfort and objec- 
tions might be squared.-’^ 

Muriel is silent. AVould it indeed be possible to do this 
thing? She would have liked to discuss the matter, but 
how explain to Lady Anne her doubts of Branksmere^s 
willingness to help her? The “ speaking to him might 
not, perhaps, enable her to compass her desire, after all. 
Ski 8ig!is impatiently. 

“ An lyet I would have you consider before taking so 
imj . -ri.iiit a step,^^ continues Lady Anne, not noticing par- 


160 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


ticularly her somewhat awkward hesitation. Madame 
von Thirsk is not an ordinary woman. She, and she 
alone, I am told, can manage the dowager when those dire- 
ful attacks have seized hold of her. A new face at such 
times infuriates the poor old woman, and in fact no one 
except madame and Branksmere himself dare approach her 
when she is suffering from one. I would have you think 
what a world of trouble you are accumulating for yourself 
if you decide on discarding Thekla. She is, heyond every- 
thing, a woman of character.^-’ 

“I can quite believe that. (“Bad character, she 
tells herself, with a sense of midying enmity toward the 
woman in question.) 

“ She has proved it. For ten long years she has been 
true to her trust. 

“ Do you honestly think, asks Muriel, suddenly, “ that 
she has wasted all those years through love of Lady Branks- 
mere 

Anne Branksmere lays down her pencil. “ As far and 
as honestly as I can judge, she says. “ And, at all 
events, of this one thing be sure: if she at any time enter- 
tained a tendresse for Branksmere, he never, entertained 
one for her!^^ Once again she takes up her pencil. 
“ Think of to-night! Think of to-night,^^ she cries, gayly, 
with a sudden sparkling change of tone that kills any 
solemnity that may have been in her manner before. 
“And dismiss from you all distasteful fancies; they are 
fatal to one^s digestion and ruinous to one^s complexion. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ Whatl wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?” 

Although Muriel will not permit herself to receive as 
gospel all Lady Anne has said, still her last words assuredly 
carry with them the germs of comfort. In spite of herself 
she is solaced by them. A longing to believe in them helps 
her to a belief as well as a desire to be at peace with her 
self-love, which is strong within her. A woman may not 
care for her husband — such sad things sometimes are — but 
still to be slighted by him, and placed second to another, 
will always be very bitter to bear. 

Now Muriel feels softened, saddened. The wild tl . ought: 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


161 


of last night sink into insignificance. Perhaps after all 
she had too hastily judged madame — had. been unreason- 
ably cruel in her manner toward her. Anne has dwelt 
upon her good points, has shown them out, and assured 
her of them. Anne! whose judgment is always calm, and 
strong, and sure. Has she, Muriel, been blinded, led 
astray by a mere fancy, and dulled by a prejudice that has 
no foundation save in her own diseased and burdened 
brain? 

Through the house there is running the news of the 
dowager^s last seizure, and of how madame sat up with her 
all the past night careless of fatigue. The old woman ^s 
bodily foe had been, it is whispered, stronger than usual, 
and those who watched with her had fought hard for vic- 
tory. The truth of this struggle is manifested in madame ^s 
face, as- Muriel sees it presently. Passing through the hall 
with a slow and wearied step, she chances to enter the 
library, where Muriel, too, has wandered, and, not seeing 
Lady Branksmere, sinks into an arm-chair and gazes ab- 
sently at the fire. Her face is white, her eyes heavy, her 
whole air stricken with a grief she seems so anxious to con- 
oeal, that Muriel, who has issued impulsively from her 
unmeant hiding-place in the wmdow, feels she dare not 
allude to it. 

A desire to forget her own unestablished wrongs, to let 
the uncertain doubt of the past weeks die, is great within 
her as she moves toward the arm-chair, where the woman 
she has been regarding as* an enemy lies crushed and sor- 
row-stricken. Before she can reach her, however, or make 
her presence known, Branksmere enters the room. 

Madame raises her head, and for the first time seeing 
Muriel, starts a little. Instantly she fiings from her the 
air of dejection that had been hanging round her, and tak- 
ing up a box of bonbons lying on the table at her elbow, 
seems to lose herself in a jdeasant appreciation of them. 
All suspicion of care quits her face. The mouth that a 
moment since drooped sadly now grows full and red ; her 
eyes gleam. She leans back in her chair with a comforta- 
ble gesture, and assumes an expression that speaks well for 
her oien Ure. Branksmere makes his wife a cold saluta- 
tion. 

'‘ You are in less pain, I hope?^^ he asks, politely. 
“ They told me your head wos very bad.'^ 


162 


LADY BRAJs^^KSMERE. 


“ It was. It is now, however, free of the throbbing. 

He bows again, as though courteously pleased to hear it, 
and walks past her down the room to the book-case at the 
lower end. Muriel, going up to madame, holds out her 
hand. 

You, too, had a bad night, I fear?^^ she says, with a. 
faint smile, and in a tone that struggles to be gracious. 
‘‘ I hope you have in part recovered from your fatigue; 
that you are feeliug better 

I am feeling loeJl, thank you,^^ with slow and marked 
astonishment in voice and manner. She looks at. Lady 
Branksmere with a curious smile, whilst altogether refusing 
to see or accept the proffered hand. 

“ Will you not take my hand?^^ asks Lady Branksmere, 
haughtily. 

“ Do you, then, wish me to accept it?^^ 

Naturally,^ ^ turning very pale, “ or I should not be 
standing as I now am.^^ She is looking down upon ma- 
dame in a stern, rigid attitude, with her hand still out- 
stretched. Madame laughs: 

Ah! that is supremely good of you — very sweet she 
murmurs, with a slight increase of the curious smile and a 
little shrug of her handsome shoulders. She turns back 
deliberately to her bonbons, as though the dainty snow- 
white hand of her hostess, gleaming with its jewels, is un- 
seen by her. 

‘‘It is war then between us?^^ asks Muriel, in a low, 
concentrated tone. “It is well! Peace would have been 
impossible. I thank you for the chance you have offered 
me of learning our true positions with regard to each other. 

“You must acknowledge then that I am at least good- 
natured,^^ says madame, unmoved, and always with the 
eternal smile. “ I have saved you a scene.. Now — with- 
out any trouble — you know ! Try some of those sweet- 
meats, they are altogether desirable!'^ 

“So good; so meet I Quite like rne!^-’ replies Lady 
Branksmere, contemptuously. 

“ Ah! Yes?^^ questions madame, reflectively. “Well 
so. Now and then one 6/oe5find them — ^liollow!’' 
! the sweetmeats?^^ asks Branksmere, who has 
ransacked the book-case successfully, and has now come 
up to them again in the delusive belief that they are chat- 


— perhaps 
What 


LADY BEAKKSMEKE. 163 

tering to each other on friendly terms. “ They are empty 
at times, eh? Nothing in them!^^ 

Madame, breaking into a low laugh of utter enjoyment, 
rises to her feet and sweeps past him and out of the room. 
Muriel, too, has sprung from her chair; but he is hardly 
prepared for the hurricane her face portrays. 

VVith parting lips and flashing eyes she turns to her hus- 
band. 

‘‘ You meant that?^^ she says, her bosom panting. “ You 
assist that woman in her insolence!’^ 

Insolence! In madame! I do not imderstand.^^ 

“ You are innocence itself!'’^ Her voice sunk almost to 
a breath. She advanced a step or two nearer to him, and 
now twines her hands behind her back, so that she can, 
unseen, grasp the rung of the chair nearest her. This 
gives her a help, a sense of support; and so standing her 
beautiful flgure looks positively superb! She is dressed/ fl; 
a satin gown of striped amber and black„ that adds to he.' 
height and throws out the delicate pallor of her skin. 

“ Send that w’oman away,^^ she says, imperiously — thi> 
Madame von Thirsk! I demand this thing is my right — a 
yourwife!^'’ 

“Why should you demand it. ^ coldly. “ Our famih 
has been under heavy obligations to her for years. 

“ Are you under heavy obligations?^^ 

“ It is at least im j >ossiblG I should treat her as you desire. ■’ ' 
“You refuse, then? Yon, in effect, protect her agahist 
me. What is this w nnan io you?^^ 

“ To me individi-;;I:y, nothing!^"' 

“ Yet for her sake ^'ou insult your wife?^^ 

“ My good child, ■ .-.lys Branksmere, in a rather bored 
tone, “ you overdo the thing, rather. Believe me, I would 
willingly insult no one --you least of all!^^ 

“Words! woidsT^ era’s she, passionately. Yon dare 
not send lier away even if you would. That is the unvar- 
nished tridh! I am not mad or blind, Branksmere. If 
you refuse to take a step in this matter, I shall understand 
that } ou ravik your — mistress higher than your wife. 

Buuiks'nere staris though he had been shot! The 
veins sweii u].)on l^is forehead. He looks at the beautiful 
aj.gry creahire l;-'i>re Inm as though he could kill her. He 
takes a step forward. 

Ho’a’ dajv yJii so speak to me?"" he says, in such a ter- 


164 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


rible voice that Muriel secretly quails beneath it. • She 
throws up her head, however, with a dark frown, and walks 
toward the door with a slow disdainful step. On the thresh- 
old she pauses to glance back at him. 

“ As you decline to act, I shall speak to madame herself,'^ 
she says, with cold distinctness, closing the door behind her. 

She crosses the hall and enters the blue anteroom that 
experience has taught her madame, as a rule, frequents. 
It is a quiet little room that leads nowhere, and is of small 
account in the household. 

‘ ‘ Give me a few minutes, she says, going straight up 
to the Hungarian, and addressing her without further pre- 
amble. “ After all that has passed between us of late, 
some arrangement is necessary. When do you leave • 

‘‘Ask Branksmere,-’^ replies madame, looking her fair 
eyes. 

‘^Lord Branksmere! What has he got to do with your 
going or staying * 

? “ Ask him that, too.'’^ 

For a moment Muriel looks so ghastly that one might, 
believe her on the verge of fainting. 

“ This is terrible, she says, in a tremulous way. “ Am 
I to understand that you will not .!eave my house? Wliat 
bond is there between you and Branksmere that should kill 
within you all sense of dectMic and v omauhood?^^ 

“ Alas! that I can not iuiswer you/" says madame, 
spreading wide her hands; “ that I must ay ^ fin say to you 
— ask Branksmere F ^ She looks up at Muriel with a half- 
amused air, and with a little mischievous smi/' that lurks 
like a devil at the corners of her lips. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ ’Tis more easy to tie knots than to unloose diem.' 

“The question is what you say to her, * oxcL ims 
Branksmere, with suppressed violence. He is loo'/ng 
white and perturbed, and there is a rather set v‘\: >r -si vn 
about his lower jaw. He has arranged his vshcin in a. 
forcible fashion against the marble chimney 
gazing darkly at Madame von Thirsk, as tl oug;: o. '/.Ai 
ing from her an explanation. X ' 

“ Say to her! Why, absolutely nothing’ Oi wii: 


LADY BKAXKSMERE. 


1C5 


you accusing me, Branksmere? Do you not know -me yet? 
I was silent, ominously so, perhaps; but I confess I was a 
little taken aback. Ask her — Lady Branksmere — to repeat 
to you a single remark I made voluntarily/^ Madame 
lets her fine eyes rest on him a little plaintively. “ It is 
unlike you to misjudge me, my friend; but the truth itself 
ever. I tell you I was most scrupulously careful to breathe 
of nothing that might betray you. I said always when she 
questioned me, ‘Ask Branksmere!^ No more, no less! 
From first to last during the distressing interview — and I 
confess — with a careful sigh — “ it has disheartened me — 
I said nothing else. ' 

BuW" 

“ You will not believe me then? Ask her, I desire you.^^ 

“It is not that. I do believe you, but such ahttle thing 
as that to — to — ’ ^ 

“ Make her lose her temper? Ah! you forget that a sore 
heart makes one petulant. 

“ Why should her heart be sad above its fellows ?^^ asks 
he, a sullen cloud making his face angry. 

“ There are reasons, tres cher. I am your friend always, 
as I say, and I must speak. I ask you frankly, Branks^ 
mere, were you: her hearths first choice? Ah! there! not 
another word then. Many a woman loves well for the sec- 
ond time, and you may yet be blessed; but a present — 
To return to our subject. I tell you I have been faithful 
to you all through, and I said to her ‘ Ask Branksmere ^ 
only because I thought it was the best thing to say under 
the circumstances. " 

“ It is difiicult^o know what is the best thing,’’ ^ returns 
he, gloomily. 

“ There I agree with you, but at the moment be sure I 
was wise. I am at times, as you have reason to know 
— with a quick, flashing smile — “ rather too impulsive, ' 
and if I had attempted an explanation dire might have 
been the results. I should probably have said just the lit- 
tle word too much, and our secret would have been imper- 
iled. 

“ Our secret, as you call it, is carr 3 dng me rather too 
far,’’ says Branksmere. “ Something must be done to 
’ ^«en the pressum; some explanation offered. ” 

' ’ am almost' sure I do not grasp your meaning. It 

is ,mpossiUe,” exclaims madame. growing deadly pale. 


16G 


LADY BRAI^KSMEKE. 


“ You will not tell me that, after all these years, you are 
about to enlighten another — a stranger 

‘‘Partially. Yes.^^ 

“ Pah! There is no such thing as a partial explanation 
in such a case. Branksmere, pause. Consider w^hat it is 
you contemplate. Have you forgotten how many your 
revelation will dishonor? There is Lady Anne.'^^ 

“ Poor Anne!" replies he, sadly. “ After all,^^ lifting 
liis head, “ perhaps publicity is the one thing that should 
serve her.'^ 

“Ah! You are like all other men. You think what 
you want to think. " 

“ I think only now that something is due to Lady Bran ks- 
mere.'’^ 

“ And is nothing due to me, after all these long years? 
Bo you, perhaps, imagine that I am happy, that I do not 
suffer? that the insults your wife delights in heaping upOn 
me are unfelt by me? that I — 

“ Let me speak for a moment. 

“ Am I a cipher.^" continues she, passionately, disdain- 
ing to listen. “ Is .all feeling, think you, dead within me? 
I have borne much for you, Branksmere, hut even patience 
has its limit. ^ " 

“ If you wonT hear me — shrugging his shoulders. 

“ You imagine, it may he, that I stay on here from 
choice,^ cries she, springing to her feet, and confronting 
him with her dark eyes all aglow. “ A sorry choice! It 
is only true that I stay on here braving all things, for your 
sake, to save your honor — the honor of your house !^^ 

She drops back into her chair again, and clasps her 
hands tightly together. 

“ There are other reasons, Thekla,^^ says Lord Branks- 
inere, slowly, his eyes on hers. “ Do you dare to deny me 
that it is love that chains your feet and keeps you here?^^ ‘ 

He smiles, and leaning over her lays a gentle hand upon 
her arm. For a full minute she gazes at him as though 
she would read his very soul. Her color dies from her. 
Does he' mean — If he should. She brings her teeth down 
sharply on her under lip "with such force that the crimson 
blood, rushing into it, dyes it vividly, making it gleam 
like a red shadow against tlie intense pallor of. her face. 
Has he forgotten all, or is it just now strongly with hinP*' 
Then the quick consciousness fades. Cruel niemoiV. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


167 


strange hope — all disappear! Her lids drop over her burn- 
ing eyes. It is with difficulty she restrains her fingers 
from rising to cover them. 

‘‘ You are right/ ^ she answers, in a stifled tone. Love 
alone chains me to this spot.'’ ^ 

‘‘I know it/^ returns Branksmere, with a peculiar 
smile. There is silence between them for a little while, 
and then — 

“ It is unfortunate that her suspicions should have been 
aroused,'’^ says Branksmere, slowly. ‘‘It never occurred 
to me that it might be so, but you, as a woman, should 
have known. 

“ What are her suspicions?^ ^ coldly. 

She regards him keenly as he makes a pretense of pok- 
ing the fire, and notes the dull red of shamed confusion 
that flames into his cheeks. 

“ Paltry ones, I confess — ^but can you blame her that 
she encourages them? Whatmust she think? What trans- 
latioii of the difficulty presents itself to her?^^ 

“There is your grandmother, the dowager — Lady 
Branksmere — she should account for eveiy thing. 

“ For the whole air of mystery that surrounds us? 
AVould it account to you?^^ 

“ If I loved you, yes. 

The insinuation is obvious. Madame is glad within her 
as she notes the sudden change that darkens his face. Why 
should this truth not be held u]) forever before his eyes? 
Staines ^s words recur to her at this instant, standing out 
before her in letters as it were of blood: “ It seems to me. 
that Branksmere might then readily sue for and obtain a 
divorce that would leave him free to wed another woman 
in every way more suited to him. 

“ Love has nothing to do with this,^^ says Branksmere, 
breaking in upon her reverie. “ It is a point where duty 
touches one more than anything else.^^ He is looking hag- 
gard and miserable, but her heart remains unmoved. 

“You will tell her then,'’’’ she says. “You have finally 
made up your mind to break the most sacred oath a man 
ever swore?''’ 

“ I shall not explain everything," interrupts he, impa- 
tiently. “ You shall be kept out of it; and there are other 
things. I only wish to give her what satisfaction I hon- 
orably can. I feel that when one marries a woman, one 


168 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


owes her fealty, loyalty, all! and that I unhappily must 
refuse her the entire confidence that belongs to her of 
right/ ^ 

And she? What does she owe you? The same? 
Fealty? Loyalty? An entire confidence? It is a very 
charming conception, but — Well, I hope you are satis- 
fied, Branksmere/^ 

Why do you seek to torture me like this?^^ cries he, 
turning suddenly upon her, with flashing eyes. “ You are 
an (Mr—fviend, but ^ven such a one may go too far. Say 
I once loved her; say my love is dead. Still, shall I not 
writhe when her — my — honor is attacked? And who shall 
say I have not been to blame with regard to her? She has 
had much cause for discontent. I will remove it in so far 
as I ani able. 

You can make all things clear to her if you will,^^ says 
madame, rising, and leaning her hands heavily on the 
table before her. Do. You have my full permission at 
least. What is the old bond that unites us in comparison 
with your — wife^s happiness?^ ^ 

“ h!o. I sliall leave you out of it. My honor is given 
to you as well as to her. I do not forget!” returns he, 
slowly. Turning away from her he sinks into a chair by 
a davenport, and mechanically takes a pen in hand. 

When will you seek to allay the fears of Lady Branks- 
mere?” asks madame, in a voice that seeks in vain to con- 
trol its contempt and its disappointment. 

To-night — no,” glancing at his watch. “It is al- 
ready too late. This ball will engage her attention, and 
just now her guests require her. I shall wait. To-mor- 
row — ” He pauses, pen in hand, as though musing, for- 
getful of her presence. “ To-morrow — ” 

He. dips his pen into the ink, and drawing a sheet of pa- 
per toward him begins to write rapidly. Madame, seeing 
herself so innocently ignored, steps on to the balcony. 

“ Adieu, Branksmere,” she says, courteously, glancing 
backward. 

“ Adieu,” replies he, in a muffled tone that convinces 
her he has for the time being forgotten her existence. 

W^ith a little frown she moves away out of sight of the 
window, but a last thought recurring to her, she retraces 
her stej^s, and once more enters the library. Branksmere 
is still writing. As she stands the heavy old-gold curtains 


LADY BRAiN^KSMERE. 


169 


fall round and hide her, and possessed by the clever 
patience th^,t usually characterizes' her she stands quite 
still, leaning against the shutter, waiting until he shall 
throw his pen aside.^ As she so stands she is quite con- 
cealed from view. 


CHAPTER XXYL 

^ “ The passions, like heavy bodies down steep hills, once in mo- 
tion, move themselves, and Imow no ground but the bottom.” 

A FOOTMAN entering*lays an exquisite white bouquet upon 
the table in the center of the room. 

‘‘ Macpherson sent these in, my lord, he says, in a sub- 
dued voice, seeing his master occupied. 

“ Hah! very good. But wait — wait, mumbles Branks- 
mere, who was still scribbling rapidly. The footman 
stands ‘immovable. Presently Branksmere comes to a 
dead stop, and flings down his pen. He looks up at the 
ceiling as if for inspiration, and finally seizing the pen 
again he signs his name at the end of the paper. He had 
meant to write the formal Branksmere, but some hid- 
den force had compelled him to inscribe the more similar 
— the less formal — George.’’^ He dashes it off in a tre- 
mendous hurry as though scarcely sure of himself and as 
though a little ashamed, and, having twisted his note into 
shape, seals it and thrusts it hurriedly into the white 
bouquet laying on the table behind him. He had done it 
all carelessly and openly, as one disdaining any pretense at 
secrecy. It is but a manner of sending a note to its ap- 
point^ place. The footman, however, staring stolidly 
through the lower window, seeing nothing of the transac- 
tion, and is even blind to the presence -of the curtain -liid- 
den madame, who, however, as if to make up for his 
stupidity, has seen a good deal and understood the r(‘>t . 

Tell Bridgman to place that in her ladysliip'^s rooi ; 
with my compliments,^^ says Branksmere, rousi\ig the 
ruminating footman to a sense of his presence. He 
to the white bouquet as he speaks, and then hasten*- I'-ca* 
fhe library, suddenly remindful of some small dut that 
.•^iiould have been performed an hour ago. 

Madame, coming softly from behind the curtain? 
though she had just entered the room from the garde i ? 
beyc'ud, rather startles the footman, as, with the !• ' 


170 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 


elegance that distinguishes him, he is taking the flowers 
from the table. 

‘‘Ah! Jenkins, I was just going to ring for you, she 
says, pleasantly. “Can you tell me where his lordship 
is?^^ 

“ He was •’ere this very moment, m^m; you’ve missed 
him by chance,"” replies Jenkins, graciously, who is a very 
affable young man. Madame, as a rule, stands well with 
all the servants, being smoothly spoken and liberal. “ ’E 
j list went out as you come in. •” 

“ Ah! unfortunate. Have you a»y idea where he has 
gone?” 

“No, m’m. Seemed in a ’urry, I thought. ’E give 
me these flowers to give Mrs. Bridgman. •” 

“ For Mrs. Bridgman?” 

“ Yes, m’m, to place in my lady’s room, and then went 
out hisself, quite suddent like. Wait, m’m — shall I see 
where ’e is?’ ’ 

“ AYs. Though” — musingly — “it is of little impor- 
tance. Still — Leave the flowers there, Jenkins, until 
your return, and bring me word if his lordship is disen- 
gaged. But do not disturb him if he is busy. Simply 
bring me word where he now is.” 

“ Yes, m’m.” Laying the flowers once again upon the 
table, Jenkins bows himself from the room, and starts on 
his quest. 

Madame, taking up the bouquet, deliberately draws 
from it the hidden note, and, with unhesitating fingers, 
breaks open the seal. It is a short note, and not very care- 
fully worded, yet its contents both anger and perplex her. 

‘ ‘ I shall have to run up to town first thing in the morn- 
ing, bnt hope to return by the three o’clock train. May I 
hope you will grant me an interview? There are a few 
things I would say and explain to you. Yours, 

“ George. ” 

This “ George ” that had so exercised his mind causes 
a throb of anger in the breast of madame. So! He has 
mavle ;i i appointment for the morrow — an appointment 
nat. m ans disclosure, confidence — and to her, madame, 
lin! So long as the secret is hers and his alone she holds 
le cards, and can defy even his wife; but that once dis- 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


171 


closed her reign will surely be over. The coward I The 
miscreant! That no love is lost between him and his cold, 
irresponsive wife is believed by madame, and yet for the 
sake of a quiet life he would betray all ! Peace is his cry, 
but it will be hardly ‘‘ Peace with honor She clinches 
her teeth passionately, and jDushes the note far from her 
across the ebony table. How to prevent this interview ! 
How to shut his mouth ! Her very soul seems set upon the 
accomplishment of this! 

To burn the letter, to fling it into those tempting greedy 
flames over there, is a simple thing, but there is danger in 
it. Hay, there must be — there shall be a less clumsy 
method of gaining her ends. Mechanically she folds the 
note again, and hghting a taper seals it with the Branks- 
mere crest lying on the table before her; she even slips it 
amongst the flowers again, but after a momenPs reflection 
removes it from thence and places it in her pocket. Yet 
she is no nearer a solution of her difficulty now than she 
was before. How dull her brain is to-day! Im2)atiently 
she pushes back the dark clustering hair from her brow. 
She is so lost in thought that presently when Captain 
Staines lays his hand upon her arm she starts violently and 
turns pale. 

‘‘ Hreaming?^^ questions he, lightly. Of the donor of 
those flowers, no doubt. 

‘‘You are right, with a curious smile, “ though the 
donation is not to me.'^^ 

“Ho? For whom then?-’^ His brow has grown suddenly 
black. 

“ For Lady Branksmere from her husband. For the 
first time she notices that he too is carrying a very exquisite 
bouquet of white heath. As she sees this she breaks into a 
low, ironical laugh. 

“ She is favored, she says in a bitter tone. 

“ He is coming out in a new light. To pose as the at- 
tentive husband is quite a departure for him,^"’ says 
Staines, with a wicked sneer. What a farce it all is! 
Yet she will wear his fiowers in preference to mine to- 
night. 

“ I hardly see how she dare do otherwise — if — She 
lets a little pause drift into her speech that is apparently 
occupied in blowing away a tiny dust speck from her sleeve 
— “ if you permit it.. It is a rather early stage in the pro- 


172 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


feedings for her to defy openly her husband, and that thing 
so far more important — the world. 

“ Perilously early. But the question is, not whether I 
will permit it, but how to prevent it. She will, as you say, 
not dare to defy the world — she will wear his flowers.^"’ 

‘‘ Wliilst longing for yours She regards him keenly 
as she drops this sop to his pride. ‘‘It is true. She will 
do this thing if — 

“ Well?^^ 

“You give her the chance. " 

“ Pah, riddles are a bore. Speak plainly if you will 
speak/ ^ retorts he, rudely. 

“ Gently, my friend,^^ says madame, closing her eyes a 
little. “ There is nothing to be gained by loud speaking 
save unenviable attention. What I would say to you is 
this. How marvelously alike both in construction and 
color are these two charming bouquets. 

In truth they are wonderfully similar. The flowers are 
not the same, but all are white, and the delicate maiden- 
hair fern that springs up between the snowy blossoms of 
both renders the likeness even more remarkable: 

“ I see. You would have me destroy his, and send mine 
in his name,^^ says Staines, slowly. 

“ Poof! Ho! We must think of something less heavy 
than that. It is a poor plot,’ ^ returns she, with quite a 
gay little laugh. “ Of what use is the advance of intellect 
of which we hear so much if we can not produce a safer 
plan? And besides,” touching both floral oflerings — “ it 
would be a pity surely to condemn either of these gracious 
things to an ignominious death.” 

“ What is your purpose, then?” demands he, sulkily. 

“ Why, to exchange them, of course,” airily. “ Fair 
exchange is no robbery. It defrauds no man. And, in- 
deedj who shall say that your flowers do not carry away 
the palm of beauty?” She leans toward him, and sinks 
her voice l^o a whisper. “ Send yours up to Lady Branks- 
mere with — her husband* s compliments, and trust me to 
have his delivered later on with yours ! It sounds a pretty 
complexitv, does it not? And it will work well, believe 
me.” 

Staines regards her flxedly. 

“You would place m^ a good deal in your power,” he 
says at last, slowly. 


LADY IJRAKKSMEEE. 


173 


Your heart fails you?^^ with a slight shrug. ‘‘ Then 
do not proceed, I advise you. Give up this little affair. 
To know fear is to insure failure. 

‘‘You mistake me. I do not fear you, ” coldly. “I 
understand myself sufficiently to know I have talent enough 
to swear myself out of any difficulty should the worst 
come. What I am now pondering is the possibility — not 
of my own failure, but that of ybur excellent plan. You 
think she will select the flowers she believes to be Branks- 
mere^’s. But how if, after all, she should elect to wear 
mine? That would be one to him, and check to me, even 
though she did not mean it. 

“ She will not defy him to that extent — yet. I tell you my 
scheme will not fall through, and will injure her materially 
in his eyes — Jenkins will be back directly— the message I 
gaVe had no meaning in it. Shall 1/’ indicating both 
bouquets by a graceful wave of her hand, “ change them 

“ As an experiment it will be amusing,'’^ returns Staines 
dryly. Taking up his own flowers, he lays them ready for 
Jenkins’s hand. 

“ Do not let him see the others. Servants as a rule are 
fatally troublesome,” says madame, removing the delicate 
waxen blossoms that Branksmere had ordered with such 
care, and dropping them contemptuously, if lightly, into a 
safe corner, where they lie hidden by some falling lace. 

She has said nothing to him about the extracted letter. 

To him, as to all others save Branksmere, her secret is 
unknown, unguessed. But her mind is still full of subtle 
workings that aim at the prevention of to-morrow’s inter- 
view between Branksmere and his wife. 

“ There is another thing,” she says softly, with careful 
indifference, as Staines turns as if to leave her. “ Some- 
ihing I learned by chance, and it has suddenly occurred to 
me it may be of some small use to you. Having,” with a 
pale smile, “ gone into partnership with you in this mat- 
ter, when I see an opportunity, however weak, of helping 
you, I make a point of remembering it.” She j^auses, 
still smiling as though for some acknowledgment from him, 
but he betrays neither gratitude nor any other feeling. 

“Go on,” he says stolidly. Plainly he is unimpressed 
by her profession of solicitude for his welfare. 

“ Branksmere has written to his wife demanding, or 
rather entreating, an interview with her on the morrow.^’ 


174 


LADY BRAKKSMEHE. 


‘‘ For what purpose? Is it a quarrel ?^^ asks he, sharply^ 
She has succeeded at last in thoroughly rousing him. 

“ Far from that. A reconciliation rather. A meeting 
that threatens to be full of domestic tenderness, and will 
upset your arrangements cleverly. Ha! You see how he 
dreads your influence over her already, when he can con- 
descend to beseech her. ^ ^ 

‘‘ I wish I was as sure of that as you seem to be,^^ re- 
turns he, with a grim smile. 

‘‘ He has to go to town by the early train in the morn- 
ing, and has asked her to grant him a private audience on 
his return. 

When will that be?^^ 

Three o’clock. 

And she— ^what does she say?” 

‘‘ Frothing, as yet. ” 

“ She hesitates, then,” eagerly. 

Not so much that, as — The fact is,” says ntadame,. 
unfurling in an indolent fashion the huge black fan hang- 
ing from her waist, “ she has not yet seen that letter ta 
which I have alluded.” 

Staines regards her with unfeigned curiosity that is yet 
largely mingled with admiration. 

“ And you have!” he remarks dryly. Keep your own 
counsel about that, by all means, but give me a hint or 
two that may serve — us. You have reminded me that the 
victory of one means victory for both. ” 

“ Hardly — but I am content to take my chance.” 

“ She knows nothing yet, then, of his desire for this in- 
terview! And he has appointed three o’clock to-morrow 
for it to take place? Is this how the matter stands?” 

“ Yes, and if by some lucky chance she should fail to 
keep this appointment — how would it be, then?” 

“ You give me food for thought.” 

‘‘ Digest it then. If she should fail, let me remind you 
that probably a reconciliation would be further off than 
ever.^’ 


“ Get that letter destroyed. If she knows nothing of its 
contents, she can not keep the appointment.” 

As I hinted to you before, my friend, you grow clumsy. 
Your constructions are too crude. A letter is a tangible 
thing — when lost — which is very seldom in these days of 
admirable management — one cries aloud for it. One de- 


LADY BBAKKSMEKE. 


175 


mands resti^tiOL. For the destroyer it grows awkward. 
No; better the letter should be delivered just a little too 
late. That rests with me. With you it remains to see that 
she is nowhere within the castle grounds at the time 
named. 

“ Three, did you say?^^ 

‘‘ Have you thought it out?^^ 

“ Give me time/^ smiling. ‘‘ At present I can only as- 
sure you that whoever fails to-morrow it shall not be I. ^ 

He lays his finger on his lip, and disappears through the 
window into the gardens as Jenkins^ returning footsteps 
sounded in the hall. 

“ My lord has gone up to one of the home farms, m^m, 
with Mr. Donaldson, he informs madame, regretfully. 
Mr. Donaldson is the Scotch steward. 

“ Very well. It scarcely matters. Take these fiowers 
up now to Lady BranksmeiVs maid. 

As she gives them to him she watches his face narrowly, 
as though to detect any suspicion or surprise in it. Her 
espionage goes unrewarded. Mr. Jenkins^ countena/iice 
continues what Nature intended it to be, a most satisfactory 
blank. To the dullest observer it would be plain that he 
has noticed no change in the bouquet, and that one bunch 
of white flowers is to him quite the same thing as another. 
He departs with a decorous languor of gait to Mrs. Bridg- 
man, and desires her to lay the fragrant heaths upon my 
lady^s table with my lord^’s compliments.'’'’ 

&me hours later, when Muriel is sitting in her bedroom 
before her glass letting her maid put some finishing touches 
to a toilet of white and gold that already is perfect beyond 
description, a second bouquet is brought to her with Cap- 
tain Staines '’s kind reg^ds. A glance tells her that it, too, 
is white, and pui’e and fragrant as that unwelcome one that 
had met her eyes on first entering her room this evening. 

‘‘ No, not there I'’^ she cries a little sharply, as Bridgman 
would have placed the new gift next to Lord Branksmere^’s 
flowers upon the small buhl table near the screen, and 
presently, dismissing her woman, she leans back in her 
chair, and taking up both bouquets, examines them with 
a strange tightening at her throat. 

Branksmere’s delicate offering, following as suddenly as 
it <i 'd upon the bitter scene that had passed between him 
a; <d aer, had roused within her a very storm of passionate^ 


176 


LADY BRAJ^KSMEHE. 


indignation. It had come without a word, without so much 
as even a poor message; had been flung to her as a mere 
stop-gap. During that last terrible interview, in which 
she had imperiously demanded from him an explanation of 
madame^s words, “Ask Branksmere,"’'’ he had almost 
promised her one, and now these flowers had been sent to 
fill its place. These dumb things that can not even by 
their beauty heal the burning thoughts, the cruel suspi- 
cions, that hurt and tear her breast. 

She had flung them from her in a very transport of fury, 
as her anger waxed hotter within her, and then, with a 
strange revulsion of feeling, had picked them up again, 
and pulled out their best leaves and laid them tenderly, if 
coldly, on the table. What if, after all, she had been mis- 
taken. If! A sorry hope. She had cherished it for awhile- 
— an inconsequent five minutes or so — and then had laughed 
at herself for thus harboring a sentiment so entirely with- 
out life. Would all her bosom ^s warmth recreate it now? 
And still it returns again and again with foolish persist- 
ence. Oh! to be sure — only sure — one way or the other! 

As Staines^ flowers now lie side by side with Branks- 
mere^s, where she has laid them down, after a little strug- 
gle with her better self, an expression that suggests revenge 
darkens her face. Here seems to be given her the chance 
of disdaining her husband ^s puerile attempt at patching up 
an injustice, already too far gone to admit of any mending. 
To discard his flowers, to openly ignore , them, and then 
give honor to his rivaTs! A sweet revenge indeed. She 
shivers a little as that word “ rival forces itself upon her; 
but she will not turn aside from it, or give a decenter 
name to her meaning. With a cold sense of self -con tempt 
she declares openly to herself that tl^s lover of hers in the 
fond careless irrecoverable past is her lover still. 

She taps the table impatiently mth her fingers, and a 
quick frown disfigures her brow. Once again she concen- 
trates her thoughts upon the question — which of these 
bouquets shall she carry to-night? A great desire to slight 
Branksmere, to betray publicly her scorn and loathing of 
him, is great within her; but within her too is a nervous 
shrinking from the act itself. To abase him is one thing, 
but to uphold another — 

Again that absurd doubt cries aloud for house roojii in 
her heart. It loill not be killed. At times it may j-e 


I^VDY BRAKKSMEKE. 


177 ' 


scotched, but always life lingers in it. There is no love for 
her husband guide or restrain the wayward workings of 
her soul, but yet some instinct warns her that his dark, de- 
termined face hides no evil, and that his eyes have never 
yet fallen before hers^ She is but a woman, too, and her 
good name is dear todier. As yet no touch of blight has 
come to it; and — and there is always Margery, and pale 
Angelica, and the boys, and the children — the pretty, fat, 
innocent twins! 

When she gets to this point in her miserable waverings, 
she clinches her teeth and draws her breath hard. Rising 
tumultuously to her feet, she snatches up the flowers that 
she — alas! believes to be Brands mere^s, and with white 
lips and trembling fingers goes down-stairs. 

The other carriages haee started ten minutes ago. Lady 
Anne and Lord Primrose have' waited to accompany her. 
With a little hurried apology for the delay she has caused, 
and for which Primrose has been devoutly blessing her, 
they, too, step into the waiting brougham, and are driven 
toward the town, the lights of which can be seen gleaming 
through the tall lime-trees in the eastern walk. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Night is waning; already day^’s footsteps lie upon the 
border of its kingdom. The stars, as though in defiance 
of their coming foe, are shining with even a keener brill- 
iance than distinguished them an hour ago. The ball is 
at its height; the waltzes are growing slower and more 
languorous; the band is at last becoming impressed by the 
sad plaints it has been holding forth so long; it begins to 
excel itself — to become, indeed, quite saturated with melan- 
choly. 

It has failed, however, to impress Margery Daryl with a 
sense of its own sentimental sorrow. She is laugliing gayly 
at this moment at the end of the room, surrounded "by 
quite a little group of admirers, amongst whom are con- 
spicuous Curzon Bellew — a man from Loming Ban i- 
and little Mr. Goldie the curate. The County Ball i.-, i. t 
only a fashionable but a very sociable affair, to whicJi both 
the rectors and the curates of the town aromid are per- 
mitted to accompany their womankind without a rebuff 


178 


LADY BEAJ^KSMEE£ 


being delivered to them next day in the morning papers. 
Mr. Goldie has no womankind of any description, but that 
hardly matters, and is quite looked over in the general feel- 
ing of hilarity and good fellowship that attends on this 
yearly reunion of the great and small. We shall just drop 
in for a moment or two to get a glimpse of our friends,^'’ 
the rector is wont to say annually in his round, jovial voice, 
but Mr. Goldie^s moment or two has grown into hours, so 
loath -is he to drag himself away from the fair Margery. 

She is looking more than ordinarily charming to-night in 
the pretty gown that Willie had given her. She is radiant, 
happy — many triumphs have fallen to her share, many 
scalps to her innocent bow, that is wrought curiously of 
sunny smiles and little speeches, half shy and half coquet- 
tish, and glances from two very wonderful eyes — deep, 
clear eyes that brighten and glow and soften as if by magic 
— sweet eyes that 

“ Smile constantly, as if they in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak.'* 

Peter, too, is in high feather; and having given himself 
into the keeping of Mr. Paulyn, is having quite a gay old 
time of it amongst the prettiest girls in the room. The 
Honorable Tommy seems determined protege shall make 
a night of it, and what between the champagne and the still 
more exhilarating glances of lovely eyes, and the many in- 
cipient heart-aches he is enjoying, Peter may honestly be 
said to be reveling. 

Your brother seems to me to be — er — going it,^^ says 
Halkett, who just now is among pretty Miss DaryPs fol- 
lowers. 

** Ah! Peter was ‘ born in a merry hour returns she, 
laughing. Mark his increasing amiability,^^ looking at 
her brother with the liveliest admiration as she sees him 
paying open court to a young woman of the Eoman-nosed 
type, who seems a good deal astonished, but decidedly 
' ' A . ^ \ ith his boyish gayety. 

'Hi astounding effrontery, you mean, corrects Hal- 

, T, li.iJ.dly. “ I myself with all my seasoning would not 
. k- small fortune to crack jokes with Lady Emma 
i’vj L'et*, which it occurs to me is what he is now doing. I 
'V- Aokr where that boys exj)ects to go to. Watch him, ho 
tioccn't look in the least frightened.^"’ 


Lady BRAiN'KSMERE. 


^379 


‘‘ The other way round rather/^ says Branksmere^, who 
had just joined them, with a little smile. 

‘‘It is cruel. It makes me feel old/^ sighs Halkett, 
mournfully. “ I canT keep up with the rising generation; 
already they distance me. He waves his right hand 
toward the animated Peter. “ Last time I spent five 
minutes alone in Lady Emma^s company was in July, •’84. 
It was an exceptionally warm evening, I remember, yet 
even when those dire five minutes came to an end I was 
obliged to fly to the nearest kitchen fire to try and impart 
some heat into my chilled marrow. Yet there is the 
valiant Peter in the same situation, warm and comfortable. 

“ More than that. Actually enjoying himself. Now 
he is laughing. And — and so is Lady Emma, by Jove. 

“ Laughing! Oh, no, I wonT believe that. Thanks, 
no, I had rather not look and be convinced. Laughing! 
Lady Emma laughing I Miss Daryl, this is our waltz, I 
think. Will you kindly take me away?*’^ 

She does so, and, passing by Mrs. Amyot, who is holding 
a court of her own, attracts her attention. 

“ Pretty thing, that Margery Daryl is,^^ she says. 
“ Soft as a crayon sketch. She always seems to me the 
very incarnation of youth and spring, and freshness and — 
er — all that sort of thing. •’^ 

“You are growing amazingly fresh and youthful your- 
self,^*’ whispers Mrs. V}Tier, mischievously. “ What an 
outburst! What ravishing sentiment! Is all that the re- 
sult of Halkett’s dancing with her?’^ 

“ Margery is charming — but not to be named in the same 
day with her sister, for all that,^^ remarks Mr. Pauhm, 
with conviction. 

“ No? Well, it would ill become me to dispute it. 
Lady Banksmere is certainly lovely.’^ 

“ To a fault, finishes Mrs. Vyner, sweetly. 

“ That expresses it in a nutshell, says Primrose, laugh- 
ing. “ She is beautiful, we can all see, and yet — is she? 
One hardly knows, after all. I confess, at all events, it is 
a beauty that puzzles me. I am Goth enough not to be 
able to understand it. She is too volcanic — too repressing. 
One is always wondering when the denouncement will be.’"’ 

“ Soon, I shouldnT wonder!’^ lisps Mr. Vyner, with the 
most meaningless air in the world. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


18 (V 

It will be curious when it comes. These intense-look- 
ing women are generally very trying — very. One can not 
conquer a natural anxiety to know if the waking up will 
produce total extinction or a new and healthy life. 

‘‘ Social extinction, did you say?" asks Mrs. Vyner, art- 
lessly. 

No; total.^' 

‘‘ It is possible to go too far, Louisa, says Mrs. Amyot, 
in a low tone, casting a warning glance at her friend. 

“ Just what I think,^^ returns that irrepressible person, 
unmoved, and in a clear voice that has lost a little of its 
lisp for the occasion. ‘‘ Much too far. My very own 
sentiment, I assure you. Ah! talk of the dev — an angel, 
I mean — there goes Lady Branksmere. " 

“ How that white and gold suits her,^^ said Mrs. Amyot, 
admiringly. White seems a favorite of hers.^^ 

So does Captain Staines, laughs Mrs. Vyner, de- 
murely, pointing to MurieTs companion. 

‘‘ Funny selection," exclaims a tall man of the lanky 
order, whose hair is a source of undying annoyance to his 
friends and his coat-collars, and whose general appearance 
is a cross between a Methodist parson and an artist. ‘‘ I 
should call Staines ugly myself. 

Oh, no! handsome rather/-’ 

I agree with Varnyshe; ugly, ugly decidedly,^ ^exclaims 
Lord Primrose, with emphasis. ‘‘ All the outer veneer he 
can put on does not blind me to the defects beneath. He 
puts his glass aimlessly to his eye, and then drops it again, 
and altogether looks as disturb^ in spirit as a little, plain, 
good-humored man can look. 

‘‘ Ah! Lord Primrose!" murmurs Mrs. Amyot, leaning 
back to look up at him out of her saucy eyes. You grow 
severe ! I shudder to think what will become of me when 
you once see through my veloutine. 

Her short, upper lip curls slowly in a mischievous smile, 
and knowing herself a pet of his, she makes at him a little 
moue. 

You are a hypocrite to your veloutine," returns the 
small man gallantly. You pretend it is of service to 
you when it isn’t?" Mrs. Amyot is delighted. 

"‘Ah! Primrose!" cries she, patting the edge of the 
ottoman, you shall have a share of my seat for that. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


^'181 

dome, take it. I know you are longing for the repose Mr. 
Varnyshe is so fond of telling iis about. 

Indeed, Mr. Varnyshe has been waxing as eloquent over 
his favorite theme as his brains will permit, with Lady 
Branksmere as subject. 

“ The general impression is that of rest, but one is hardly 
safe in believing it. Her eyes, the petulant under lip, 
mock at it. At the first glance she is an exquisite ‘ still 
life,^ if you will, but with a storm brooding on the distant 
hill-tops.^^ 

The artist sniffs ecstatically, and then blows a sonorous 
blast upon his poky nose. 

Would you have them impolite? How do you treat 
those with whom you are on friendly terms 

“ Ah! you should know!^^ murmurs she, reproachfully, 
glancing up at Paulyn, who is the speaker, and who forth- 
with breaks into an irresistible laugh. “I don^t scowl at • 
them, at all events, behind their backs. And I have re- 
marked that Captain Staines looks as black as an Ethiop- 
ian when Mrs. DaryPs eyes are off him. 

Poor soul!^^ says Primrose, reflectively. “ I fear he 
is not long for this world. Han well will be enriched by 
him before many montlis go by.^^ 

‘‘ Ever hear any fellow talk of one^s inside like him?^^ 
burst out Mr. Paulyn, indignantly, who perhaps has not 
altogether grasped his meaning. ‘‘ Doocid odd I call it, 
and before ladies, too. One would think he was the pri- 
vate possessor of a telescope that could see mto a fellow, 
eh?^^ 

Dwell on his many inches and be lenient, says Mrs. 
Amyot when she has laughed a little. And bring to 
mind at the same time your Bacon; ‘'My Lord St. Albans 
said that nature never put her precious jewels into a garret 
four stories high, and, therefore, that exceeding tall men 
had ever very empty heads.'’ Poor Mr. Varnyshe! One 
feels for him after that. And it isnT my abuse, mind 
you. I should be afraid to criticise any one so many miles 
above me.^' 

“ Mrs. Vyner, we miss you. You have not spoken to 
us for quite five minutes. Your thoughts? Give us those 
at least. 

“ Alas! I never learned how to think. Mrs. Amyot 
will tell you so,^^ lisps she, mournfully. “I was merely 




LADY BRAXKSMEKE. 


looking at the little American woman with the robin^s eyes. 
The Daryls ’ sister-in-law^ I mean. 

See how she watches Lady Branksmere^s every move- 
ment/^ exclaims Mrs. AmyoL amused. 

‘ ‘ Or is it Captain Staines^ ? I am so wretchedly short- 
sighted/^ protests Mrs. Yyner, regretfully. “ Do you 
know I often wonder what it is CajDtain Staines can possi- 
bly have done to her, or she to him; they treat each other 
with such a rigorous politeness when compelled to speak 

“If Lady Branksmere is to bracketed as a ‘ «till life/ 
how may Miss Daryl be designated asks Primrose, bland- 
ly. “ As ‘ an interior"?"" 

“ Yes, yes. Very aptly put. And what a perfect ‘ in- 
terior!" All love and peace and grace!"" 

“You admire Miss Daryl the most, then?"" says Mrs. 
Amyot, smiling. 

“ Ah, yes!"" responds the lanky man, with a loud sigh, 
that speaks no doubt of a full heart. He moves away, 
his hand thrust in an Irvingian mode into his breast, with 
the elbow well prominent, and strides into space with fl3dng 
locks. 

“No wonder! They are very pretty eyes. I suppose he 
would rather have them on him. "" 

“ That I question."" 

“Fancy you remarking anything!"" says Mrs. Amyot, 
in a tone that might be termed satirical. 

“ That surprises you. Do you know, of late,"" ventures 
Mrs. Yyner, meekly, “ it has occurred to me that, per- 
haps, I look more stupid than I really am?"" 

She glances nervously, appealingly around her. 

“You must not let that fear trouble you again,"" whis- 
per^ her friend, gayly. “ It isnH true 

Mrs. Vyner laughs. 

“ Anybody got their eyes on Aunt Selina?"" exclaims 
Mr. Paulyn at this moment. “ If so, he or she will be 
richly rewarded. Such spite! such venom could hardly be 
excelled ! I like a thing well done, I confess, be it good or 
e^il. See how she glowers at Muriel! She seems to have 
made quite a Mte noire of her of late. Why? I wonder. 
What"s she been doing?"" 

“ That is just what we all want to know,"" sighs Mrs. 


LADY BEAJ^KSMEKE. 


183 


vengeance, at all events, says Mr. Paulyn. “ And what 
an eye it is! Asa boy it used to regularly crumple me up, 
and even now it takes the curl out of me. Thank good- 
ness! she has taken up a new hobby. As a rule, that eye 
was dedicated to a discovery of my delinquencies.^^ 

The Honorable Tommy heaves a sigh of deepest nelief. 

“ I^m very sorry if I offend you, Mr. Paul3nn,-’^ murmurs 
Mrs. Vyner, with pretty impertinence. “ But I must al- 
ways regard it as a personal injury that that old lady, your 
aunt, ever saw the light. Why donTyou renounce her.^^^ 

• •’TwouldnT have done you a bit of good if sheM been 
born blind,^-’ returns Mr. Paulyn, gloomily,- pretending 
to misunderstand her. “ SheMhave found you out all the 
same!^"’ 

The insouciance of this remark is hardly to be surpassed, 
and being well understood of the people roimd is irresisti- 
ble. Mrs. Amyot, bending over her fan, gives way to si- 
lent mirth. 

You were right in what you said yesterday,^' she whis- 
pers to Mrs. Vyner. “ He is a nice boy.^^ 

Perhaps if she hadnT been born at all it would have 
simplified matters, says Mrs. Vyner, with some faint 
asperity. “ She is a living nightmare. 

“ Puts on her clothes with a pitchfork, and is never 
happy unless she is taking away somebody ^s character — 
shocking habits, both,"’^ murmurs Mrs. Amyot. 

Shocking, indeed,^’’ agrees Halkett, who has Just come 
up behind them, glancing at her with meaning. 

Ah, you?'"" she cries, lightly. ‘‘ Well, Mentor, and 
where have you been all this long time. Instructing some 
new pupil, perchance. We have been discussing Lady 
Branksmere's charms in comparison with those of -"her 
sister. I am prejudiced in favor of Margery, I own, but 
public opinion gives the apple to Lady Branksmere. She 
is the acknowledged beauty of the room to-night. Yes, 
Mr. Paulyn, you were right when you said Margery^ s per- 
fections were eclipsed by those of her sister. 

Perhaps it will add a little additional interest to that 
'i’emark of mine to know that it was not made in allusion 
to Lady Branksmere at all, returns Mr. Paulyn, pleasant- 
ly, but to Margery^ s younger sister — Angelica."’^ 

They are a handsome lot, those Daryls, says Prim- 
rose. Beauty seems to run riot amongst them.^' 


184 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 


“ And virtue,^’ supplements Mrs. Vyner, sweetly. As 
she says this with an ingenuous smile^, and quite a generous 
air, Lady Branksmere, with Staines still beside her, passes 
by them, and, slipping through an open window, disap- 
pears into the mystic recesses of the night. 


CHAPTEK XXVIII. 

“ My soul lies hid in shades of grief.” 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Upok the broad stone-flagged terrace great tubs of odor- 
ous evergreens are dotted here and there, casting their 
perfumes into the dewy darkness. A little harmless baby - 
shower had fallen from heaven about an hour ago, and still 
the large shining leaves are wet with it, and sparkle softly 
in the moonbeams. Up above, the pale dnfting clouds 
have been scattered by a wandering wind, and now the 
Queen of Night is sailing calm and tranquil in the blue 
ether. 

Down in the gardens the tall white lilies are nodding 
their drowsy heads, and the sweet trailing ro^s are casting 
shadows on the closely shaven sward. The air seems 
burdened with the warm scent of them. Pale disks of 
light are lying in soft patches on the mossy turf, and now 
and again a sleepy caw from the distant rookery in Branks- 
mere Woods, that border on the town, is aU that comes to 
break the unutterable calm of the hour. 

The tender-colored night draws hardly breath. It seems 
more like a sweet twilight than the soft bordering on the 
lines of a new day, and through the scented darkness a 
little loving breeze is rushing with gentle petulance. 

Far beyond again lies the fountain, its sprats rising and 
falling in a lazy, musical fashion, suggestive of the thought 
that it would fain slumber, but is driven into action by 
some tyrannical Pixie, lying laughing in its basin where the 
big white flowers are glistening amongst their swaying 
leaves. Muriel, coming to a standstill beside it, seats her- 
self on the marble edge, and dreamily still, pulls off her 
glove and lets her Angers play amongst the opening buds 
that lie on the water’s bosom. 

Staines, seating himself beside her, watches her with a 
curious iatentness. Never before, perhaps, has he felt so 


LADY 13RA>nKSM£RE. 


185 


keenly the power and perfection of her beauty. The mys- 
tic hour — the soft breathing of the night — the sense of 
farness, only rendered more acute by the swelling and dy- 
ing of the slumberous waltz that comes to them every now 
and then upon the midnight wind — all tend to bring pas- 
sion into life. It seems impossible that any one should be 
awake save these two. All the world might indeed be dead, 
and that sweet, mournful music their requiem, with only 
two to hear it! 

No human voice comes to them; no whisper, only the 
sighing of the rustling grasses, and the fond cooing of the 
wood-doves. The perfume of the lilies is wafted to them, 
and she, fairer than any lily, is sitting motionless upon the 
marble basin, her head half turned aside. 

Her white gown, with its touches of gold, is .making a 
vivid blot against the dark background of firs. The moon- 
beams have descended and caught her, and are encircling 
her with their white flames, playing amongst the folds of 
her clinging gown, and glancing off the gems that deck 
her. 

Presently, as though the silence has reached her even 
through the armor of strange thoughts that have clothed 
her, she lifts her head and looks round her with an air of 
one suddenly startled. 

How apart we seem to be,^^ she says, discontentedly. 

I am glad of it,^^ returned Staines, in a manner hur- 
ried, impulsive. It seems to attract her. 

You are changed,^^ she says, leaning forward and re- 
garding him curiously. “ What is it! The moonlight.^ 
It always makes me, too, long to be alone !^^ 

She sighs as one waking from a rapture — and a certain 
Ihtle sense of vague but joyful rest that had sweetened, her 
lips, 'flies. She looks once again, cold, loveless, impassive. 

He checks the eager words he would hava uttered, and 
instead, stooping toward her, points to the white flowers 
she holds. 

“ I hardly dared hope so much.^^ 

“ So much?'^ 

‘‘ That you would wear my flowers. 

“ You mistake,^^ she says, coldly. These are not 
yours. You will understand, quickly, with icy courtesy, 

that I thought yours charming; that I was much grati- 
fied, but I have not used them."’^ 


18G 


LADY ERAXKSMLKE. 


“How then/^ with an admirably puzzled air, “you 
received two bouquets the same?^^ 

“ In effect, yes. But the flowers are different. Yours 
were lilies, if you remember. 

“ Pardon me, smiling pleasantly, “mine were beatb. 
Whose the lilies were I am at a loss to conjecture, but cer- 
tainly my bouquet was composed of heath. 

Lily Branksmere flushes slowly. She feels perplexed., 
uncertain. Had she made a mistake? Surely Bridgmair 
had given these flowers last, with his lordship ^s compli- 
ments. A sudden frown wrinkles her forehead. 

“ I do not comprehend,” she says. “ Of course there is 
a mistake somewhere. But,^^ steadily, “ I repeat I had 
no idea I was wearing the flowers you so kindly sent me.’’^ 

“Ah! That knowledge I have taken to heart. Pray,, 
do not be afraid I shall imagine otherwise,^^ returns he,, 
with a touch of pride that is yet sadly humble. “ I must 
express my regret that that sorry gift of mine,^^ glancing 
at the flowers, “ has occasioned you some annoyance. 
Whoever sent you the other flowers, with meaning, “ is 
to be envied. ” His tone is almost a question, and it gets 
its answer. 

‘ ‘ Lord Branksmere sent them, ” returns she, quickly, if 
indifferently. Something in her manner that Staines 
chooses to translate to his own satisfaction sends a sudden 
light of triumph to his eyes. To him her hasty answer is 
equivalent to a desire on her part to relieve him of all 
jealous fears. She would have him assured that no other 
man^s flowers had been chosen in preference to his, hut 
that Branksmere^ s had been worn through a mere sense of 
mingled fear and duty. 

Her fingers are still in a listless fashion rippling the calm 
water of the fountain. Seen by the rays of the ghostly 
moon they look like the fingers of a dead hand floating there 
in their slender whiteness. Staines, stooping over the basin, 
takes possession of them, and forcibly draws them from the 
water. The large drops falling from them glisten like 
jewels. Muriel seems surprised by his action, but not in- 
ordinately so. 

“ Let my hand go,^^ she says, haughtily, disdaining to 
.make any physical effort to release herself. 

“ In one moment.'’^ Carefully, and with the utmost tend- 
erness, yet with an obedient haste, he dries the hand he 


LADY BKAlsKSMEilE. 


• 187 


liolds — the hand that once had lain in his idly, contentedly, 
for hours, yet that now chafes and frets at his touch. Per- 
haps the impatience that thrills through it is not altogether 
displeasing to him as he lifts his eyes and intently scans 
the lowered lids and silent face before him. A s^ face, 
pathetic in its studied coldness, that hides as if with a mask 
the workings of its owner '’s heart. Have her thoughts 
traveled backward, too, to those old days of despised free- 
dom, when poverty was the chief sorrow with her, and she 
lived in the midst of a merry tangle of boys and girls, and 
when there , was one outside who — 

She comes back to the present with a sharp sigh as 
Staines lays her hand now dry upon her lap. 

‘‘ Don^t put it in again, he says, quietly. It is still 
early in the year, and the water is chilly. You may catch 
cold. 

‘‘ I never catch cold — absently^ — “ as you may remem- 
ber. 

She regrets the words even as they pass her lips, and the 
opportunity they afford him. He seizes upon it eagerly. 

‘‘ Remember he repeats, ma tone of strongly repressed 
passion. “ When shall I forget, I wonder? What is there 
in all the sweet days we passed together that I do not re- 
member? Yet — eagerly — do not misunderstand me. 
Do not for an instant imagine that I regret one single 
hour. Memory is rrow the orrly good that life has left me. 
The memory — his voice sinks to a low tone full of 
pathos — ‘‘ of a priceless past!^^ 

Let the past lie,” returns she, coldly. What have 
Tve to do with it? It is gone, dead. Ho effort, however 
violent, can brirrg it within our grasp again.” 

I have at least one solace in my desolation,^ ^ says 
Staines, in a low tone. ‘‘ And that is the knowledge that 
I suffer alone. It is, it shall be,” vehemently, a lasting 
comfort for me to krrow that you are as free from regrets 
as I am overshadowed by them. ” 

‘‘ Shadows are movable things,” with a faint shrug of 
her shoulders. ‘‘It seems to me that at times you can 
emerge from yours with a very tolerable success.” 

“ Ay, but they always follow me. In reality (though 
one may deceive one^s self at times) there is no escape 
from them. But be hap]^' in the thought that they do 


188 LADY BEANKSMERE. 

not trouble you — that those old days, so dear to me, are by 
you remembered as a foolish passing dream/'’ 

‘‘ Would you have me believe you unhappy?’ Memands 
she, scornfully. 

I would have you believe nothing displeasing to you. 
Mold your belief according to your fancy. ” 

I have none. I have lost all beliefs,” declares she, with 
a reckless defiance. But don’t waste time over that 
speech. You look as though you had something to say. 
Sav it. ” 

You are wrong. I never felt more tongue-tied in my 
life. I could tell you nothing that is not already old and 
weary news to you. That I have loved, that I do love, that 
I shall love you and you only — -for ever and ever!” 

His tone is so calm, so entirely wanting in the vehe- 
mence that disturbs, that she seems scarcely called upon to 
rise and forbid his further utterance. She sits quite mute, 
with her eyes downcast, and her fingers tightly laced, lying 
in her lap. 

It is an uninteresting tale, is it not?” continues he, 
quietly. All on the one string. Yet for me it has 
variations. I can make my torture a little keener now 
and then by a careful reminding of myself that the woman 
for whom I would have bartered every hope I possess — 
deliberately — of her own free will — severed between us 
every tie. ” 

‘ For whom you would have bartered allT Why did 
you never protest so much as that in those old days you 
are so fond of recalling?” inquires she, with a sudden cold 
sneer. 

I thought I had protested more. I believed my soul 
as open to your gaze as I madly dreamed yours was to 
mine. I saw no necessity for words. I ” — dejectedly — 
was mistaken upon both points. My failure was my own 
fault, no doubt, but it is none the less bitter for that.” 

If, indeed, you feel as you now pretend, you should 
never have come to this house,” declares she, with slow 
distinctness, but he can see that she is trembling. 

I know that now, but then — How could I tell — how 
be sure how it was with me until I saw you again?” He 
is speaking with extreme agitation; at this moment, in- 
deed, he is sincere enough, and the woman before him, 
standing gazing at him with head erect, in all her cold. 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 


18 ^ 


imperio • • * ty, seems to him the one desirable thing on 
earth. Jae iiad almost denied the truth to Mme. von 
Thirsk — had refused, at least, to acknowledge it, yet cer- 
tainly the honestest love he had ever known had been called 
into existence by Muriel Daryl. The girl he had accounted 
charming, a prize worth any man^s winning, yet that first 
love of his had sunk into insignificance beside tlie pas- 
sionate admiration he had felt on seeing her as Lady 
Branksmere. The gorgeous setting of her new life had so 
suited her and enhanced her every beauty that the mem- 
ory of the girl grew dim before the splendor of the woman. 

He admires her — ^finding a fresh charm even in her very 
insolence toward him — covets her daily, hourly, and with 
his growing passion for her, encourages also a settled det- 
estation of the man who, to use his own thoughts, has 
stolen her from him. That she is mistress of the best 
affection he has to offer is beyond question — ^but that 
affection just falls short of what a true lover^s should be 
in that his love for himself is by many degrees stronger 
than his love for her could ever be. Still his regard for 
her is great enough to throw passion into his voice and a 
certain fire into his handsome eyes. 

“ It seems to me,'^ he goes on, vehemently, ‘‘ as though 
I should come; as though with my own eyes I must see 
you, if only once again. He pauses. 

“ And — Her tone is stern, almost bitter, but her lips 
are white. 

‘‘ Now I know” returns he, brokenly, ‘‘ my love still 
lives — nay, has grown a thousand-fold in its vain strength. 
I have learned that time holds no hope for me. That I 
am as sick of Life as a man may well bel'’^ 

‘‘ Why do you stay here if you are so unhappy cries 
she, suddenly. “ Why donT you go.^'’^ She rises and 
stretches out her hand with a quick impulsive meaning. 
Go, I beseech you, she exclaims, feverishly, and with such 
an eager desire in her tone that one might easily believe 
her to be entreating more for herself than for him. 

‘‘ I can not! Some power chains me to the spot. It is 
a fear, undefined as yet, but it is too strong for me — it 
holds me here. 

A mere morbid fancy, returns she, regarding him 
fixedly. ‘‘ You should despise suck vague warnings.'’^ 

‘‘Not when they point toward you!^^ She pales per- 


190 


LADY BEA2^KSMEK:’ 


oeptibly, and would liave spoken, .but c 'l .v ,, ighty 
curve her lips have taken — tlie scorn m Her eyes of all 
danger for herself — and yet underneath all that the lurk- 
ing terror that his words have called forth, to the very 
blanchiug of her face, he prevents her answer and hurries 
on deliberately. 

If I could manage to forget, or to be indifferent, I 
might, indeed, make my escape; but that is impossible. 
N^or would I care for such oblivion. For — ” with an im- 
patient sigh — 

“ ‘ Even though I’ve shattered my skiff on the rocks, 

The voyage was sweet while it lasted.’ 

Xo! I would not forget. The very voyage that wrecked 
my happiness will always be the dearest memory I have. ^ ^ 

‘‘It is folly — madness,^^ cries she, angrily. “ You 
should go.^^ 

“Are those your orders?^^ demands he, sadly. “Do 
not enforce them. And there is another thing — ^he 
draws nearer to her in an agitated haste, and his voice sinks 
to a whisper, “ how can I go, and leave you here alone, 
surrounded by those who — at least — bear you no good 
will?^^ 

He breaks off abruptly as if in sore distress, but in 
reality to mark the effect of his words. She has stepped 
back from him, and her hand has dropped downward and 
is clinging tightly to the cold edge of the marble basin. 

“ Give voice to whatever is in your mind,^^ she com- 
mands him, in a high clear tone. But though her tone is 
steady, there is something wild and strained in the glance 
that accompanies it. What is it he is about to say to her? 
“ Are you afraid to put your insinuation into plain words? 
The worst enemies, they tell us, are those of one^s house- 
hold — who is it you would bid me distrust? Speak! — 
Branksmere? His grandmother? — or perhaps — she 
draws her breath sharply, and the squareness of her mouth 
becomes more pronounced — “ Madame von Thirsk?'’'’ 

“ You give me my opportunity,'’^ exclaims he, eagerly. 
“ Madame von Thirsk! Do not trust her. I know but 
little, I have no right to judge, but — do not, I implore 
you, place faith in that woman. ^ 

A deadly chill passes over Muriel. Her own suspicions 
thus echoed by another seem to enlarge them at once to a 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


191 


gigantic size. But yet he may know nothing of that darker 
fear of hers, of that shameful doubt that possesses her soul 
by night and day. A terrible longing that this last indig- 
nity may be spared her, nerves her to answer him. 

“ I fancied you were madame^’s friend,"’^ she says, in a 
' ^ ‘ ' ‘:o render careless. “ Did I not see 



now? It appeared to me that yon 


held very amicable relations with her. I was wrong? 

How can I say whether you are right or wrong? She 
has given me no reason to be otherwise than outwardly 
friendly with her. It is only some hidden instinct that 
bids me watch her, for your sake. ” He hesitates openly, 
and then leans toward her in an impulsive way that adds a 
double and most sinister meaning to the words. ‘‘ I would 
be rid of thia accursed doubt, he says, in a low, con- 
densed tone, “ tell me — you, who should know — what is it 
there is — between her and — Brankmnere f ^ 

Muriel leans heavily against the fountain — no answer 
falls from her lips. It is all over then? The disgrace is 
known! Those miserable fears of hers were only too well 
grounded! A sense of suffocation threatens to overpower 
her. She feels giddy, and a strange buzzing noise ringing 
through her brain distracts her. She is not conscious un- 
til afterward that in this instant of agony she has uncon- 
sciously flung out her hand and laid it with a terrible 
trembling in it on Staines'" arm, a trembling that' betrays 
her! Instinctively as it were she has turned to him for 
support, for succor. His pulses throb with unusual force 
as he recognizes this fact, and closes his own fingers firmly 
over the beautiful slender ones ihat came to him of their 
own accord. 

Then in a moment it all passes away — her agitation — the 
anguish — the deadly shame. All is gone from her, and 
she is herself again, save for an additional pallor in her 
cheeks and a strained passion of fear in the gray eyes. 

‘^Must no man dare to have an old friend ?^^ she asks, 
with an attempt at lightn^ess that is only a miserable fail- 
ure. Her strength is insufficient for her whilst his eyes 
pierce her thoughts, and after a last wild struggle with 
herself she breaks down utterly, and buries her face in her 
hands. 

My beloved! That you should have to endure all this!^^ 
murmurs Staines in a tone so low. so replete with all the 


192 


LADY BRAl^KSMEKE. 


lover fond indignation, that it is barely audible; yet it 
thrills through her. 

And then in a moment, as it were, his arms are round 
her, and he has pressed her bowed head down upon his 
breast. She lies there passiyely. At this time, when her 
very soul is sick within her, it seems to her as if there was 
nothing at all that mattered. What are honor, loyalty, 
faith? Words — all words! Nothing remains but the 
knowledge that all the world is at liberty now to jeer at 
her, and point the finger of scorn at her — the despised wife. 
Oood heavens! Can such things be for her — Muriel Daiyl? 

Oh! the old days! The happy days! When she reigned 
as a minor queen over them all! When love brightened 
her path. Oh! to be loved again! To be able to forget 
this part that has been assigned her — the role of a Ionian 
neglected by him who should be her guide, and guardian, 
and protector. 

And this man loves her! This man whose a:ffection had 
seemed to her a little cold, a little careless, in the past. 
She had wronged him there. Now in the hour of her des- 
olation it seems good to her that love should not be alto- 

f ether denied her, that it may yet be hers, no matter in 
ow sorry a disguise it comes. To her, love is a pure and 
holy thing — passion has no part in it. To be deemed the 
one thing needful, the best, the dearest possession life can 
afford, by one human creature, is all she desires. Ghosts 
of a dead sweetness rise before her, springing to life again 
beneath the burden of her grief. Must she with her own 
hands crush them back into their graves again? Is every- 
thing to be denied her? Why should she so greatly dread 
the world? — what can it give her save pity? She literally 
writhes beneath this thought, and a sharp sob escapes her! 

Oh! to fling it all from her. To rush into another, 
freer life. To breathe agaili! And here is a door open to 
her — a means of escape. 

All at once a revulsion seizes upon her; she drags her- 
self out of his arms and stahds back from him. With 
slow, shuddering gasps she catches her breath. Of what 
had she been thinking — she f A terror has fallen upon her, 
strange, "vivid, horrible; a looking into herself that has 
■changed and darkened her face, and made her look like an 
incarnate fear! Whither is she drifting? 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


193 


Muriel, you shall not feel it like tliis/^ cries Staines, 
shocked at the expression in her eyes. “ Hear me!^' 

Nay, sir; be satisfied!'’^ breathes she, heavily. “ Am 
I not degraded enough? At your bidding all was forgot- 
ten. I do not see how I am to look any one of them in 
the face again. 

She is not thinking of the guests within, but of Margery 
— pure, sweet, merry Margery — and of all the other girls 
and boys who call her sister. 

“ Let us not talk nonsense, says Staines, with a sudden 
roughness, that under the circumstances is only kind. 
‘ ‘ The question now is, how can I help you? I have noth- 
ing to offer — nothing save my devotion. 

“ I want nothing from you,'’^ cries she, passionately. 

That least of all. Did the whole world combine, do 
you think it could avenge such a case as mine? And you, 
of all others, how dare you offer me help? You, to whom 
I have shown — Further words refuse to pass her lips, 
and he perhaps slightly misunderstands the thing she 
would have said. “ No— no help from you to me is possi- 
ble,^’ she says, presently. “.Be sure of that. I will ac- 
cept nothing at your hands.” 

She is white as death, and her great stormy eyes are flash- 
ing. They fall upon the flowers she is still mechanically 
holding, and with a gesture of intense scorn she dashes 
them to the ground and treads them under foot. She turns 
upon him like an outraged queen. 

“ Oh, that I could trample out of sight all that troubles 
me,” she cries, her fingers plucking convulsively at the 
soft laces that lie upon her bosom. 

As she so stands, beautiful in her grief and her cruel self- 
contempt, a soft, low laugh rings through the shrubbery 
upon her left. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ Woman’s at best a contradiction still. 


“ This retreat of yours is a positive sanctuary,” says 
Halkett, dropping leisurely on to a three-legged s|;ool, with 
the air of a man w»i»> h worn hi2n.5idf out in the perform- 
ance of his doty. “ P very duA-y in corner of the 
balcony, and Ih. re is something sootihiig in tho thought 


/ 



194 


LADY BRANKSJn ; E. 


that every one is dancing' in the rooms within^ and that 
one^^s own body is idly resting/'’ He had addressed Mar- 
gery Daryl, but there are two or three others lounging in 
this quiet, forgotten little spot, hemmed in by the tall 
shrubs in their huge pots. There is enough light falling 
on them from within to cast a faint radiance on their dark- 
ness, and to make the different faces known to a person 
with good sight. But not enough to disturb the repose of 
the scene. 

Mrs. Daryl is sitting on the sill of the curtained window; 
Curzon Bellew is leaning over Margery’s chair. Peter, 
and a tall artilleryman called Herrick, who has for months 
been rendered morose by an absorbing passion for Miss 
Daryl, are leaning against the ivy, madly regardless of the 
earwigs, and Peter’s last pretty partner is amusing herself 
with him from the depths of a cushioned lounge that, with 
the aid of a big red fan, almost conceals her from view. 

If a sanctuary, who gave her permission to invade it?’^ 
asks Margery, gayly. She has been particularly right- 
minded up to this rather late hour, and Curzon ’s soul has 
been quieted within him, but now, all suddenly as it seems, 
she wakes into a wicked life, and, sitting more upright, 
turns a bewildering smile on Halkett. There is always a 
little standing flirtation between them, though she w^ell 
knows where his heart is buried, and he knows he is less 
than nothing to her when once the friendship boundary is 
passed; still for the purpose of teasing other attendant 
swains, Halkett, as Miss Daryl uses him, is invaluable. 

‘‘ What an unkind speech! Have I not flown to you 
for refuge? And is this the spirit in which niy prayer is 
received? Seeing you not alone. Miss Daryl, or even a 
deux, I took the liberty — ’ ’ 

Oh, that is nothing. You are always taking that,’"’ 
retorts she, with a pretty pretense at scorn that finds its 
end in the pretty laugh, tuneful and sweet. The ques- 
tion is, what brought you?’"’ 

‘‘Heed you ask?’'’ reproachfully. “You know I am 
always unhappy when — ” 

“ She proves untrue?” This speech is a whisper, and 
has allusion to Mrs. Amyot, but to Curzon and the tall 
man ner?t him it is fidl of sinister meaning, and creates 
within th‘^ja a ravevdjAg for blood 

“ She o.kvays does/'’ iays HalkcM, ignoring the allusion. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


195 


■^nd looking sentimentally at her. ‘‘ Who should know it 
;so well as you?^^ 

‘‘ Who, indeed?^^ 

“Yet you have most cruelly deserted me all to-night; 
most wantonly you have flung me amongst the Philistines. 
That I still live is no merit of yours. And all the time 
you have been dreaming here, or in some other fortunate 
spot, whilst he who would die to — to — ^ 

‘ ‘ Yes. Don^t let it embarrass you; I know all the rest,^^ 
puts in Miss Daryl, kindly. 

“ You should! You have served an apprenticeship to 
it. But to-night^s success should not render you unmind- 
ful of the pangs of others. To know that all the world is 
groveling at your feet might make you merciful instead of 
cruel. 

“ Perhaps you think you are amusing me?^^ with a soft 
disdainful uplifting of her dainty chin, and a little dimp- 
ling smile. 

‘ ‘ My natural self-conceit never carried me as far as 


that. 




That is * ' as well.-’^ 



“ I don^t tliink you are in a very pretty temper to-night. 
A generous mistress uses the lash sparingly to her slaves. 

“ Her favorite slaves, perhaps. Besides, who told you I 
ever was in a pretty temper? 

“No one. I think myself, so far as I am concerned, 
you never are.^^ 

“ The lady of your heart is ahoays good-tempered, of 
course!’^ There is another innuendo in this remark; Mrs. 
Amyot at times being a little impetuous, to say the least of 
it. 

“No. Have I not just this moment told you she never 
is — to me.^^^ 

Miss Daryl makes a little grimace. 

“ The object of your affections — she begins, saucily, 
but he interrupts her. 

“ Oh, Miss Daryl! ‘ The object!^ For my sake, if not 
for your own, refrain! I really can not sit silent and hear 
you call yourself names. 

Wilhelmina in the background (who has been kindly 
striving to keep the gloomy artilleryman from manslaugh- 
ter) here so far forgets her self-imposed mission as to burst 
out laughing. Margery follows suit, and presently Mr. 


196 


LADY BRAJfKSMERE. 


Halkett^ thou2jh with a carefully aggrieved air, joins in 
also. 

‘‘Now where does the joke come in?^"’ demands he,, 
mournfully. 

“ That is what we all want to know/'’ says Curzon, 
speaking for the first time. As he makes this chilling re- 
mark, he throws up his head, and yawns in a bored way,, 
very successfully. 

“ All? I donT,'’^ says Margery, gayly glancing at the 
unresponding Bellew from under her long lashes. . 

“ No? You are happy then in not being a prey to the- 
unsatisfied curiosity that is consuming me. 

“ I am so far a prey to curiosity that I am dying to know 
what you mean,-’'’ says Margery, teasingly, who ought to be 
ashamed of herself. 

“ I should think my meaning has always been perfectly 
clear to you,’ ’ returns he, with a steady glance that fails 
to disconcert her in the very least, “^y the bye, this is 
our dance, I believe. '” 

“Is it? I — I don’t think I want to dance, ” returns 
she. Halkett has gone over to talk to Mrs. Daryl, so that 
she and Curzon are virtually alone. 

“ Don’t you? I wonder then why 5’^ou come here?” says 
Mr. Bellew, in a practical tone. “ The business of a ball 
is dancing; one can sit and doze at home.” 

“ There are other things besides dancing.” 

“ True! There is fiirting,’’ says he, bitterly, which re- 
mark establishes a coldness in the conversation that lasts 
for many minutes. It is still at freezing j^oint when Tom- 
my Paulyn, unattached, runs lightly up the steps to their 
left and precipitates himself among them. 

“ What are you all doing here in the dark?” asks he, in 
a loud, cheerful tone that seems to dissipate the peaceful 
gloom at once. Shad<P to Mr. Paulyn means dullness, and 
dullness death. “ All in the dumps, eh?” with a glance 
at Margery and Bellew. “ Been -fco the gardens? They 
are looking lovely. Try ’em and take my advice, they’d 
kill your blues in a hurry. ” 

“ Did they cure yours. Tommy? Was that why you 
sought them?” demands Margery, oh! so sweetly. 

“No, my dear, I leave the vapors to such thinly minded 
little girls as yourself. I defy any man, woman, or child 
to affect my nerves. To deviled oysters alone that proud 


lADY BRAKKSMERE. 


197 


boast belongs. seriously, tlie gardens are awfully 

well got up. ^ Lamps everywhei'e, and stars and things. 
Never saw such a satisfactory moon anywhere. The com- 
mittee ought to be congratulated on its arrangements. 
They ought to be presented with a Bible or, something. 

‘‘ Not good enough/'' says Miss Daryl. “ According to 
your account they have managed even the heavens admira- 
bly. I donT see what could repay them.^^ 

‘‘ Will you come and look at them?'" asksCurzon, mean- 
ing the^ardens, not the committee^ conquering himself a 
little, in his fear that Halkett will be before him. “ It is 
a charming night, quite sultry."" 

Cold, I should have thought,"" replies she, who had 
certainly never thought about it at all until she saw her 
lover's eyes fixed imploringly upon her, and heard the note 
of activity in his tone. 

‘‘Pouf!"" exclaims Mr. Paulyn, lightly. “I like to 
hear you beginning to be careful of your health. You aren’t 
more delicate than Muriel, v are you? and she has been en- 
joying the midnight breeze with Staines for the last hour."" 
Tommy says this quite gayly, being ignorant of any rea- 
sons (or at all events unmindful) why she should not so en- 
joy herself. He is blind also to the fact that the smile has 
died away from Margery" s lips, and a curious gleam lias 
sprung to life in the eyes of Mrs. Daryl. 

Oblivious of the different storms his words have raised,, 
he rattles on gayly to whoever will kindly listen, and under 
cover of his converse Belle w once more appeals to Marger}\ 

“ Come,"" he says, earnestly. This time without a won! 
she rises, as though glad of a chance of escape, and moves 
slowly, listlessly down the steps into the scented darkness 
beyond. In silence, as though weighed down by some 
painful thought, she goes, and he makes no attempt to 
break in upon her voiceless mood, until most of the paths 
have been traversed and the hope is borne in upon hirq 
that her fears are not to be realized. 

“ What a fellow your cousin is to talk,"" he says; then, 
with a very successful air of indifference: “ I quite thought 
by what he said that Lady Branksmere was somewhere out 
here;'didn"t you, eh?"" 

“ I know Tommy, and the wildness of his surmisings, 
better than you do,"" returns she, evasively, but a great 
calm and comfort has come to life ^dthin her breast, born 


198 


LADY BRAI^KSMEKE. 


not only of his words, but of the fact that Muriel is really 
nowhere to be seen. How foolish she was to place any de- 
pendence upon any words ©f Tommy^s! One should be 
badly off indeed for a reliable authority on any subject to 
go to him for intelligence! With the restoration of her 
peace of mind returns also her sense of aggravation. And 
it is at this very moment that Bellew chooses to make a 
rather unfortunate remark. 

‘‘You look pale,'’^ he says, solicitously. I suppose it 
would have ended very anuch the same way if he hii said 
she looked red, as her relieved feelings are ambitious of a 
quarrel; and, besides, that last insinuation of his on the 
balcony is rankling afresh in her mind now the greater 
weight has been lifted. 

“I am sorry I can^t look like a dairy-maid to oblige 
you,^^ she says, with an ominous calm. “ However, if my 
appearance offends you, I must try to correct it. She 
lifts her hands and administers to her poor cheeks a very 
vigorous scrub that almost brings the tears to her eyes. A 
swift, stinging flush rises to her face. “ Now, are you 
satisfied?^'’ she asks, irately — ^the “ scrub having hurt 
her in a measure — turning to him a wratlif ul, crimson coun- 
tenance. 

“ I donH know what you mean. I can^t see why you 
should speak to me like this, ’’ says Mr. Bellew, in an in- 
jured tone. “ When did I express myself as dissatisfled 
with your face? To me,^^ with angry honesty, “ as you 
well know, it is the most beautiful face in the world. ^ ^ 

“ There is a certain class of people whom I detest,^ ^ re- 
turns Miss Daryl, unpleasantly, uplifting her pretty nose 
in a contemptuous fashion. “ You are one of them. Mat- 
tery is their strong weapon, and I^m sure youWe been j^ay- 
ing me meaningless compliments ever since I was born.^^ 

“ Born!’^ witii a rather derisive laugh* “You can re- 
member since then?'’^ 

“I have often heard,^^ icily, “that there are few so 
clever as those who have at command an unlimited amoimt 
of repartee. Experience has also taught me that there are 
also few so — wearying. She turns upon him eyes that 
are half veiled by their long lashes, and very aggressive. 

“ If I bore you,^^ says Mr. Bellew, whose temper this 
time is almost as agreeable as her own, “it is most unrea- 
sonable of me to inflict my presence on you any longer. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


199 


Will you come back to the house, or will you stay here 
whilst I tell Halkett — 

‘ ‘ There ! I Tcneio it I'’ ^ breaks she in, scornfully. ‘ ‘ Any- 
thing like your abominable jealousy I have never yet 
known! Your rudeness to me just now upon the balcony 
I pass over. I am accustomed to it — but your rudeness to 
that very inoffensive person does call for comment. '' 

‘‘ How was I rude, may I ask?^’ 

I)o you then deny you were in a raging temper all the 
time he was — was courteously endeavoring to entertain 
me?"" 

“ Openly endeavoring to make love to you, you mean,"^ 
exclaimed Bellew, his long-suppressed wrath now fairly 
boiling over. ‘‘ Do you think 1 am blind, or a fool, that I 
can"t see through things? I tell you, you were encourag- 
ing Halkett in a disgraceful fashion, and that he seemed 
only too glad of the encouragement."" 

“ I must be a modern Venus,"" says Miss Daryl, com- 
posedly, ‘ ‘ to inspire all the different men you mention at 
odd times with a due appreciation of my charms. To-day 
it was Mr. Herrick — ^yesterday Lord Primrose — to-night 
Mr. Halkett. Poor people! It would cause them some 
slight embarrassment, I should say, were they to be openly 
accused of their crime. "" 

‘‘It is not only — "" begins he, with increasing anger, 
but she interrupts him mischievously. 

“ Not only those I have named? True! there is still Mr* 
Goldie who has also come under your ban. Even that esti- 
mable man, that small pillar of the church, can not escape 
your censure. " " 

“ To sneer at me, Margery, is not to convince me. I 
have loved you too long to be callous on this point. If an 
end to my dreamings has come, I would know it. " " He 
lays his hand on her shoulder and turns her forcibly to such 
a position as enables the pale moon to play more earnestly 
upon her face. “ It is my belief that at last you have de- 
cided on throwing me over, to marry some other man. "" 

“ Which of them?"" demands she, shaking herself free- 
from his angry clasp. “ Mr. Halkett, who is head over 
ears in love with Mrs. Amyot, or Lord Primrose, who has 
neither eyes nor ears for any one save Lady Anne?"" 

“ There are others,"" says he, with a very determined 


LADY BRAUTKSMEIIE. 


soo 

face, ignoring her burst of wrath. There is Herrick 
and — 

She has changed color perceptibly, and startled a little. 

“ Yes, Herrick, he reiterates in a despairing tone, that 
is still warm with indignation. ‘‘ See, when I mention his 
name how you change color. 

‘ ‘ I suppose I can change color if I choose.. Is ablush 
a sin.^^^ asks she, looking at him from the shadow into 
which she has wisely retreated. 

“ No. But I will tell you what it is — the deliberate 
breaking of a man^s heart. I have loved you all my life I 
think — through your scorn and indifferene — and you have 
suffered me, only to tell me now you are going to many 
Herrick. 

“ I am not going to tell you anything, cries she, indig- 
nantly, and to say the truth, a little hypocritically. “ Am 
I a Mary Baxter, who, ‘ refused a man before he axed her ^ ? 
Am ir’ 

Did you refuse him?^^ 

“ How could evasively, ‘‘if he didnT give me the 
opportunity?^ ^ 

“ You give me your word he did not propose to you?^^ 

Thus driven to bay. Miss Daryl once more resorts to 
righteous anger. 

“ Even if he did — if they «Z? did, what is that to you?'^ 
she demands, with her lovely .eyes aflame. “ You are not 
my father, or my brother, or my guardian, that you should 
take me to task — and certainly you shall never be my hus- 
band 

This terrible speech seems to take all heart out of Belle w. 
He stands, as though stricken into stone, except for the 
rapid gnawing of liis mustache. Until this moment, in 
spite of his vehement reproaches, it had never seemed really 
j)ossible to him that all might indeed be over between him 
and her. Does she mean it? Can she? His eyes are riv- 
eted upon the sward that, sparkling with moonlit gems, 
lies at his feet. Will she speak again? Does she guess 
how he is enduring torments? If she moves away, what is 
he to do — to follow, to implore, or to resign all hope, 
finally? 

The moments fly by unchecked. To Margery, his silence 
is almost as inexplicable as hers to him. 

If she repents the severity of her speech, however, her 


201 


^ADY BKAKKSMERE. 

countenance by no means reveals the fact. There is noth- 
ing of the culprit about her; no smallest shadow of regret 
darkens her charming face. 

“ If/^ she declares to herself, with undiminished rage, 

he should stand there, mooning, until the day breaks, I 
shall not be the first to speak 

She has taken up her fan and detached it from the ribbon 
that holds it, and is opening and shutting it in an idle, in- 
consequent fashion that, to the man watching her with 
moody, despairing eyes, is maddening. It startles her in 
spite of her hankering after stoicism, when she finds it 
roughly taken from her careless fingers and fiung to a con- 
siderable distance. 

‘ ‘ Have you nothing to say to me asks he, passionately. 

“ Nothing, returns she, calmly, although her heart is 
beating. 

‘‘ Do you know you have told me that all things are at 
end between us?" 

He is speaking very quietly, and her heart begins to beat 
even faster, with a more untamable speed. 

Well," cries she, pettishly, “it is all your own fault. 
I won'^t have people jigging about after me, and pretending 
to look the deepest concern when there is no cause for it. 
There is nothing on earth so tiresome as being asked every 
moment whether one has a headache, or if oner’s neuralgia 
is worse, or if some iced water wouldn^tdo one good !^’ 

“ And all this,'’^ remarks Mr. Bellew, wdth mournful re- 
proach, addressing the listening roses, “ has arisen out of 
my simple declaration that I thought she was looking a 
little pale!^^ 

Miss Daryl changes color, fights a short battle wdth her 
gravity, and finally bursts into open mirth. 

“I have been a cross goose, certainly,'’^ she confesses 
with heroic candor; “but never mind. We are friends 
again now, arenT we?^^ 

“ We are not,'’^ he returns. 

“Oh! that as you will, of course, stiffly; “but I 
thought — 

“I am your lover, declares he, stoutly. “Nothing 
you could do or say would alter that fact. You can throw 
in the friend and welcome. But your lover I am, bMore 
and above all else. And so I shall remain whether you 
wed me, or some other man, or if you never marry at all. H 


202 


LADi' BRAXKSMEiiL. 


** Do you know I think it will be that/^ says she^ allud- 
ing to the last part of his speech. ‘ ‘ I am sure I shall 
never marry — never 

Shall we walk on a little further?^-’ asks Belle w, in the 
severe tone of one who wishes to impress you with the belief 
thi ' ^ ' u are talking folly. 



pleasant garden, past numerous 


groups of wanderers like themselves, and gleaming statues, 
not always in the strictest taste, to the shrubbery that lies 
to the right of all these, in the well-planned public gardens 
so dear to the hearts of the citizens. 

“ I really think, Curzon,^^ says Margery, gayly, who has 
quite recovered herself, shooting a charmingly saucy glance 
at him from her adorable eyes, ‘‘ that there is one small 
thing for which an apology is due from you to me. What 
was that little insinuation of yours about flirting, eh? You 
didn^t mean it — 

She has the prettiest AVay in the world of uttering that 
unspellable question, and Ourzon goes down before it. 
Nevertheless, with a last effort at maintaining his self- 
respect, he makes a poor pretense at not understanding her. 

Flirting he repeats, with a vague air that would not 
have imposed on an infant. “ I^m sure I shouldnH say or 
mean anything, intentionally, that would hurt you.^^ 

That’s all very well,” replies she persistently. But 
the thing is, did you mean that ? I’m not a flirt, Curzon, 
am I? And you don’t think so, do you?” 

There is no getting out of this. Mr. Bcllew, being 
brought to bay,- surrenders with the basest of cowardice. 

Of course not, ” he says, hastily. I must have — have 

been a fool when I said that.” 

Only then?” mischievously. 

Then, and now, and always when I am with you,” re- 
turns he, vehemently — perhaps a little sadly. 

‘‘ I thank you for giving me your choicest hours!” says 
?he, with a little grimace. And then : ^ ‘ After all, how 
could I expect you to give me of your best, I, wFo am so 
bent on being an old maid?” 

“ You, who are so bent on breaking my heart!” replies 
.e, gloomily. 

Miss Daryl laughs— a soft, tuneful laugh that rings 
hrough the cool night air. As she laughs, she moves, and 
parting the thick screen of leaves that hides her from the 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


203: 


fuller view beyond, steps on to the shorn plateau, clad only 
with moonbeams, that is musical with the sound of the 
dripping fountain. 

As she looks straight before her, the laughter dies upon 
her lips. Her smile grows frozen. There — there in the 
moonlight-— only a few yards from her, stands Muriel, her 
face pale, ashen, all the marks of passionate despair upon 
her beautiful face, and there, too, stands — Staines.' 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Who makes quick use of the moment is a genius of prudence.”' 

The whole thing is over in a moment. Margery, like 
one stunned, steps back again behind the kindly shelter of 
the evergreens, and Curzon (who too has seen and compre- 
hended all) follows her rapidly, anxiously, in her hasty walk 
back to the house. 

Not a word or sigh escapes her, yet he, loving her, knows 
the agony her heart is- enduring, and understands but too 
well the degradation and horror that are possessing her. 
Her lips have grown white and fixed, her glance is stern, 
all the pretty, petulant playfulness seems killed within her, 
and her breath comes heavily. Her fingers are so tightly 
clinched around her fan that he can see through the gloves 
the very shape of her nails. 

To induce her to break through this cruel reserve that is 
still deeper augmenting her sorrow, becomes to Bellew an 
imperative duty; and at last, coming to a shaded spot, 
where they two are virtually alone, he lays his hand gently 
on her arm, and draws her toward him. 

‘‘ Don^t take it so hardly, darling,’-’ he says, very ten- 
derly, though secretly rather anxious as to how his inter- 
ference will be received. Will she resent it, and turn from 
his sympathy coldly? There is a pause full of doubt, and 
then — all at once— Margery turns to him and lays her head 
upon his breast, and bursts into a passion of silent tears. 

“ Oh, Curzon!” exclaims she, in a bitter tone, clinging 
to him in the abandonment of the moment. 

‘‘ There is a great deal of unhappiness in the world, 
Margery; but you must not take things to heart as though 
there were no hope, no remedy. ” He has his arms round 
her, and presses his lips softly to her pretty hair. Is he 


504 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 


not her lover? Is she not the one dear, sacred thing to 
him upon earth? How can we tell what^Inriel was en- 
during just now? One can not altogether stifle one^s heart- 
beats, and if she was bidding an eternal farewell to the first 
love of her life, we should feel nothing but pity for her/^ 

He is not entirely sure of the genuineness of the picture 
he has conjured up for her comfort, but he dreads her 
dwelling too strongly on the fear that has evidently taken 
possession of her. And, in truth, MurieFs ghastly face 
and strained attitude might as readily belong to the guilty 
woman as to her who is forever renouncing the one sweet 
treasure of her past. 

Oh, that I could dare believe you!^^ murmurs Mar- 
gery, sobbingly. But my heart misgives me.^^ 

Nevertheless, she is comforted in a measure, and pres- 
ently enters the house again with him, unhappy still, but 
soothed and softened, and with a vague recognition of the 
fact that his tenderness has been very pleasant to her. All 
joy to be derived from her evening is, however, gone, and 
she subsides languidly into a fauteuil in an anteroom to 
wait with listless patience for the moment when Wilhelmina 
will summon her to cloak herself and accompany her home. 
Of two things she. remains ignorant, that Mrs. Daryl had 
been standing near the entrance by which she regained the 
ball-room, and had noticed with wonder the lingering traces 
of distress upon her face, and that Lady Branksmere had 
followed hard upon her footsteps, and had re-entered the 
house almost as she did, and by the same route. 

Muriel had caught sight of her sister on her homeward 
way, and had told herself she never could be devoutly grate- 
ful enough that the girl had not chanced to see her at the 
fountain as she stood there transfixed with horror of her- 
self, with the first terrible touch of despair upon her face. 
That Margery had seen, and judged blindly but correctly 
of the miserable truth, did not even reveal itself to her. 
But even now as she steps again into the brilliant glare of 
the lamps she looks round nervously for the slender, lithe- 
some figure of the girl, and knows a sense of relief when 
her e3'es fail to meet it. 

Wilhelmina she greets with a friendly smile, and, hardly 
pausing to notice her expression (which, however, is worthy 
of thought), moves on to where the lace draperies of the 
windows form a frame for her; Staines, coming to a stand- 


LADY r.RAXKSMERE. 205 

sfcill behind lier, looks round him, and in turn meets Mrs. 
Daryl's rather impressive gaze. 

“ Take care she whispers, in a curious voice; “you 
remember our compact. I will be silent only so long as 
you give me no cause to speak. 

Elevated by the sense of triumph that is still warm within 
him, he disdains all answer to this warning, only saluting 
her with an almost defiant and certainly ironical bow. 

“ As you will,^^ returns she, still in a low tone, “ but at 
least remember you are warned 

He laughs insolently, and flicks fromTiis sleeve with an 
unembarrassed air a small particle of dust. Something in 
his manner strikes cold to Wilhelmina. Is he so sure, 
then? Will her interference be of no use? Has it gone so 
far as that? It seems to her at this moment that the other 
woman is nothing to her. But Margery, she will sufter. 
The memory of the pretty white face that had passed her a 
few minutes ago returns to Mrs. Daryl with a vividness 
that is actual pain. The girFs tender hearC will be racked 
and torn for no fault of her own, but because of — 

She becomes conscious that Staines is still gazing at her 
with that mocking smile upon his lips, and with a last 
glance at him, so full of scorn and hatred that it sliould 
have warned him, though her words failed. She falls back 
once more into the shadow of the window. 

Staines, moving up to Lady Branksmere^s side, addresses 
her eagerly. No syllable had passed between them as they 
walked in a strange silence back from the fountain, but 
now he ventures to speak. 

“ At least do me the justice to understand I did not mean 
to olfend you,^^ he says, in a low tone, replete with 
humility. 

“ What is offense ?^^ muses she, wearily. “ No one, it 
seems to me, has power to hurt me, save me myself. Yes,^^ 
turning her large eyes fully upon him, “ I exonerate you 
from all blame. 

Her generosity should have disarmed him at least for the 
moment; but such vulgar sentiments are unknown to him. 

“ Ah! to be stire of your forgiveness/^ he murmurs 
eagerly. To her, his eagerness is but a form of honest, 
lingering regret, and her eyes grow softer, kinder as she 
watcheshim. 

“ Be sure then,^^ she says, very gently. 


206 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. 


“ Give me a proof/ ^ entreats he. ‘‘ To-morrow, the- 
others are all going to the tennis atfair at Lady Blount ^s. 
Are you, too, going 

“ No!^^ with a surprised glance; I have decided 
against it long ago. Tennis bores me. But what has that 
to do with — 

To assure me of your pardon, interrupts he, quickly. 
‘‘ Say you will permit me, too, to set aside the invitation 
for to-morrow, and to accompany you instead in your after- 
noon walk. I feel that I have sinned in your sight. That 
you might in time learn to Igok askance at me; and all such 
fears mean death! But if the coming hours hold out to 
me some hope, I shall surmount my fears; I shall know 
there is still life for me. Believe me, I shall not sin again 

His whole manner is so deferential, so humble, so mild, 
that she is touched by it. 

“ To-night was a mistake, certainly,^ ^ she says, but as 
I have already told you, I absolve you from all blame. 
Yes; to-morrow, if you wish, you can walk with me.'^ 

She sighs. Indeed all through her manner there is a 
suspicion of mental fatigue. Turning her face from him, 
she looks listlessly around her, and as her eyes travel from 
wall to wall she becomes at last aware that Branksmere is 
watching her from a distant door- way with a burning, im- 
movable gaze. 

She starts visibly, and is conscious of growing nervous 
and unsettled beneath it. She compels herself to sever her 
glance from his, but presently is drawn back to him in 
spite of herself to find that he has withdrawn his scrutiny 
and is now apparently wrapped in contemplation of some- 
thing at the furthest end of the hall. There is, however, a 
set expression about his firm lips, suggestive of possibili- 
ties, hardly wise to develop before an admiring public, and 
a certain rigidity of jaw that should be marked dangerous. 

He had been aware that the flowers his wife held were 
not those sent to her by him, from the moment she had 
emerged from the cloak-room, but he had been far from 
imagining whose gifts they were until enlightened in a 
charmingly airy and casual manner by Mme. von Thirsk 
somewhat later on. To the ordinary observer it would 
hardly appear that Branksmere was a careful husband, yet 
the ordinary observer would probably have been astonished 
could he know with what precision every movement of his 


LADY BKAKKSMEKE. 


207 


wife is known to him. And just now he is chafing silently 
beneath the knowledge that Muriel has spent the last hour 
in Staines^ undisputed society, amidst the romantic acces- 
sories of a moonlit garden. 

A very tumult of mixed passions is swaying him. That 
she shall give liim an explanation he is determined. But 
not now. Not to-night. He has written to her, and con- 
sidering to-night^ s work she will hardly dare deny him the 
interview he has demanded on the morrow. Already the 
night is far spent. In a few short hours he will be face to 
face with her, and will get an answer to the questions that 
are clamoring for utterance. 

Perhaps he is hardly aware with what strange earnest- 
ness his wife is perusing his countenance. His dark eyes 
are half closed and sullen, and there is a cruelty about his 
compressed lips that is almost murderous. Muriel, read- 
ing him, sees something about him that warns her it will 
scarcely be wise to bring herself into prominence in his 
sight so long as she has Staines in her train, but a mad fit 
of willfulness is upon her, and a longing to sound him — to 
compel him to answer her— to see if the fire so unmistak- 
ably smoldering within him will burst at her voice into a 
flame, drives her to reach and address him. 

“ It is so warm here, it stifles me!^^ she says to Staines, 
who has been looking in a contrary direction to hers and 
has not seen Branksmere in the crowd in the door-way. 

Come into the hall. 

She moves slowly through the thronged room toward the 
place where her husband stands, but as she reaches it, she 
sees he has quitted his position, and either because of her 
coming, or for some other more ordinary reason, is now 
moving indolently away from her, to the right, toward 
some disused rooms, not got up in festive array, that still, 
by means of the balcony outside, have access to the ball- 
room. 

Possessed by her one idea, now grown obstinate, she fol- 
lows him — Staines always beside her — ^into a side room half 
lighted and void of decoration, that had been originally in- 
tended to make an additional boudoir, but at the last had 
been discarded as superfluous. There is a good deal of use- 
less twine and wire flung into the corners, and almost in the 
center of the floor a heavy bar of iron lies, that had been 


208 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


thrown there, presumably when the workmen had found 
no further use for it. 

Lady Branksmere, not seeing it in the dim light, catches 
her foot awkwardly in it, and stumbles. She sways nerv- 
ously, and puts out her arms as if with an involuntary de- 
mand for help; a little rounded of alarm breaks 

from her lips. , 

With an exclamation, Staines springs forward and catches 
her. His fingers close warmly round her lovely naked 
arm; he has forgotten everything but her, even the dark 
shades in the lower part of the room. He is rudely awak- 
ened to the present by an arm that, coming between him 
and Lady Branksmere, hurls him backward to where the 
wall checks and supports him. 

When he recovers himself, it is to find Branksmere star- 
ing at him with an unpleasantly savage longing on his 
dark, swarthy face. Staines goes down before that look, 
and stands, panting heavily, against the friendly wall. 

Lady Branksmere has shaken herself free from her hus- 
band^s grasp, and has moved back from him with a slow, 
recoiling motion. She has thrown up her small, queenly 
head, and is regarding him fixedly. Her lips are pale and 
parted, and her breath comes through them painfully; but 
her gaze is curiously steady, and in the large deep eyes that 
burn into his there is scorn, contempt, and hatred; but no 
fear. 

Hot a word is spoken. A strange horrible silence seems 
to oppress all three. At length, when it has grown almost, 
beyond endurance, Branksmere breaks it. He bursts into 
a harsh, grating laugh. 

“I fear. Captain Staines, that my interference was 
rather a rough one,^'’ he says, lightly, the dangerous devil 
still lurking in his eyes. “But when you remember my 
excess of zeal arose out of my anxiety for Lady Branks- 
mere^s safety, I feel sure you will pardon my seeming dis- 
courtesy. One or two old world beliefs still cling to me. 1 
was absurd enough to fancy, with a mocking smile, “ that 
I, as her husband, was the one to rescue her in — a crisis 
such as this. 

In deference to the “ lurking devil, which is still dis- 
agreeable en evidence, Captain Staines bows an acknowl- 
edgment of this curiously worded apology. 

I had forgotten the strength of my arm. I did not 


LADY BHANKSMERE. 


209 


hurt you, I trust says Branksmere, with a laugh, slow 
and cruel, as he watches the other ^s discomfiture. Is there 
a faint threat in his words? A warning of what the future 
may contain for the lover who shall dare to come between 
him and his peace? He removes liis gaze slowly from 
Staines and bends it on his wife — who returns it haughtil}^ 
You have escaped this time,^'’ he says, slowly. ‘‘ But 
if you will permit me to advise, I should recommend you 
to avoid unfrequented places in the future. Beaten paths 
are best. And — one may trip once too often 

It would be impossible to describe the rage in her eyes 
as he finishes this speech. 

Sound advice,^'’ she returns, in a low, choking voice. 
“ May I hope, my lord, that you yourself will take it to 
heart ?^'’ 

A pale smile widens her lips for an instant; a very ghost 
of a smile. Then, as if by magic, her whole humor changes, 
and she turns to Staines with the old, calm listlessness 
upon her. 

‘‘ This way evidently leads no-whither,'’-’ she says, indif- 
ferently. “ Let us return to civilization.^^ 

She Weeps leisurely toward the door by which she had 
entered, and once again enters the world of light without. 
Slowly, with an unmoved front, she passes down the long 
cool hall, dotted here and there with groups either stand- 
ing or sitting, who have gladly escaped from the heated 
atmosphere within, to breathe more freely in the larger 
space without; past statues gleaming from their artificial 
bowers of sparkling greenery; past Margery, pale, with 
downcast eyes; past Lord Primrose in a shady nook pro- 
posing once again to Lady Anne, who once again is giving 
him an evasive answer, the memory of poor Arthur 
being present with her to-night; past all these and many 
more goes Lady Branksmere, with Staines always beside 
her, and always with head erect and a calm brow, though 
in her soul is raging a tumult of passionate wrath that in- 
creases rather than dies as the moments go by. 


210 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

** Now they interpret motions, looks, and eyes. 

At every word a reputation dies.” 

Mrs. Amyot looks up at Lady Branksmere, brushes past 
the cozy nook that contains her, and regards her curiously. 

“ 8he is as impassive as a sphinx/'’ she says, a little en- 
viously. 

“ Scarcely, tres cliere; she is safe to break out later on,^^ 
murmurs Mrs. Vyner, hopefully, who has sunk upon the 
lounge beside her, whilst, waiting for their respective part- 
ners to bring them .the ices for which they pine. Take 
heart 

If that be so, she will find herseK presently the center 
figure of an imbroglio that I for one should prefer steering 
clear of. There is something odd about Branksmere'’s 
eyes. Ever noticed it?" 

‘‘ Neither that nor anything else about him. Instinct 
long since warned me he doesn’t admire me, and I never 
waste my time. " 

I am afraid your little story about Lady Branksmere 
and Staines, milike the run of its order, has some founda- 
tion.” 

‘‘ What are you afraid of?” 

‘‘ Well, I should be sorry, for one thing, if matters went 
too far. I like Branksmere, and I tolerate her, though I 
grant you she is at times a degree impossible.” 

‘‘ If you said she is on rare occasions a degree possible, I 
might follow you. As it is — I have often warned you, 
my good child, that those quiet ones are never to be trust- 
ed, and I expect we shall have an explosion at the castle 
next autumn, before which dynamite would pale. But, 
hush! here comes the colonel, and I know no one ” — glanc- 
ing at the advancing veteran who calls her wife — “ who so 
cordially detests scandal as that priceless fossil.” 

Except me,” supplements Mrs. Amyot, with a frank 
laugh, ‘‘ M^hen it is directed against myself.” 

I never feel like that,” smiles Mrs. Vyner, serenely, 

conscious virtue would prevent me. The knowledge that 
the scandal was undeserved (as naturally it would be) 
would, in my case, raise me above all such weak fancies.” 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


211 


‘‘ Ah!^^ says Mrs. Amyot, who seems amused. 

“ If the colonel means coming, I wish heM do it, and 
get it over,^^ exclaims Mrs. Vyner, presently, in a disgust- 
ol tone. “ He was steering for us with all sails set, and 
scolding in his eye a moment ago, and now he has come to 
anchor by Lady Anne, llow I wish she would keep him 
forever. There is a present, now, I would make her witli- 
out regret. 

‘‘ It has always been a matter of speculation to me why 
on earth you married him. 

‘‘ He has a few pence,^^ returns her friend, mildly. 

And I always hope he wonT die until he has come in for 
the Bellair title and diamonds, and made me ‘ my lady. ^ 
After that the dear old man may abscond as soon as he 
likes, for me. Besides, I donH think there was any one 
else just then.^^ 

‘‘ There w^as always Tom.^^ 

Tom!^^ with an accent of unqualified, if lazy, scorn. 

I wonder if Tom could tell you at this instant whether 
he has five pounds or five thousand in the world. Now 
what under heaven should I have done with Tom? He is 
all very well, I grant you, as this, or as that, but as a hus- 
band! No, thank you! For the rest," with an unaffected 
yawn, “ I am positive, if you were to analyze it, one man 
is as good as another.'’^ 

“ There is a noble broadness about your views that one 
would dowellto imbibe, says Mrs. Amyot, admiringly, 
who seems, indeed, delighted with her. I own, myself,, 
to a silly prejudice in favor of youth, but no doubt that is 
a weakness. Ah! Here comes your warrior at last. And 
with what a lowering visage! He looks as if he were about 
to order out one of his native regiments for instant execu- 
tion.'’^ 

‘‘ He is only going to order me home. DonTbe alarmed. 
I sha'^nT go,'’'’ says Mrs. Vyner, smoothly. “ He always 
makes a point of removing me when he thinks I'’m having 
a good time, but Fve learned by this how to square him. 
I confess I have been doing pretty well to-night, and he 
has a perfect talent for knowing wLen I^m enjoying my- 
self.’^ 

I wonder you are not a little afraid of him; there is. 
something about his under jaw — that — 


212 


LADl BRAN KSM EKE. 


“No. I am not afraid. I have secured myself. You 
know that cousin of his, Elfrida West? I wormed a little 
secret of his out of her— a secret belonging to his salad 
days, and consequently to the last century — that will stand 
to me, if he ever dares to twit me with any of my short- 
comings.^^ 

“ She betrayed him?^^ 

‘‘ She sold him for forty pounds. I paid her that down 
for it. She was hard up at the time. She always is hard 
up, that j)Oor Elfrida! and her woman had given her to 
understand that she would wait no longer for her bill. So 
she gave away the colonel. 

What a bore these dress-makers are! One would think 
one could have money for them the moment they choose to 
ask for it.’^ 

I was immensely obliged to Elfrida^ s woman for all 
that. Out of simple gratitude I gave her quite a large 
order the week later. She arranged me, you see. Yes, 
doesnH the old man look furious! Watch how he tries to 
make mince-meat of his mustache. What has he heaj’d 
now, I wonder ?^^ There is notan atom of concern or con- 
sternation in her tone; only a suppressed amusement. 

‘‘ Perhaps he is tired,^^ suggests Mrs. Amyot, kindly. 

Borne down by the burden and heat of the evening, he 
is naturally anxious to get home."^ ’ 

He is unnaturally anxious, you mean, to spoil my 
sport. To see me happy is to see him regularly on the 
champ. He is, I assure you, the very dearest old thing !^^ 
says the colonePs wife, gayly. 

I hope you donT wrong him,^-’ persists Mrs. Amyot, 
earnestly, who has an affection for Mrs. Vyner that, to tell 
the truth of the latter, is honestly returned. “ He is old, 
you know; he may be sleepy. 

He is old enough, in all conscience. One might per- 
haps indeed say he is old enough to be once again young 
enough to be eager for an early couch; but that is not his 
ailment. 

Mrs. Amyot gives in. 

‘‘ Well, I dare say, though a veiy charming man, he is a 
little wearing at times,^^ she says, leniently. 

‘‘ He is about the most unmitigated nuisance I know,^* 
returns the charming man^s wife promptly, with a simplic- 
ity truly edifying. 


LADY BRAXKSMEEE. 


213 


He has come up to her by this time, and now she throws 
back her picturesque head against the satin cushion of her 
chair, and turns up to hisscowling one a face that actually 
beams all over with an affectionate smile. Even the keen- 
est observer could not detect a flaw in it. 

He is a tall, soldierly- looking man, at least thirty-five 
years older than she is, with an imposing mustache, and 
an irritable suspicious eye. He seems just now a trifle un- 
impressed by her amiability. 

What^s the hour, eh? Not going to stay here all 
night, eh, eh?^^ 

It is dull, isn^t it!^^ responds Mrs. Yyner, with a yawn 
that is weak with weariness. ‘‘ I had hoped, darling, see- 
ing you so gay all night that you had not felt it, but as for 
me — I am positively done to death. 

Humph!’ ^ says the colonel, glaring at her. 

Are you coming home now? These mixed assemblies 
are very trying, don’t you think? The butcher and the 
baker and the candlestick-maker, you know, or at least 
their equivalents, in the rear of our own set. Don’t let me 
hurry you, Douglas, but I confess I should be glad to put 
a termination to this dreadful evening.” 

‘‘ M — m — m?” says the colonel, running up quite a full 
gamut of suspicious query. “ It didn’t occur to me that 
you were dull to-night.” 

‘‘ I hope I shall never so far forget myself as to look 
^nnuyee/^ smiles Mrs. Vyner, sweetly. “ But to you,” with 
an upward glance full of the prettiest confidence, “ the 
truth surely may be confessed. I have endured agonies 
since I entered this house. Indeed, I should say plainly 
tliat I have been insufferably bored, only ” — with an ador- 
able smile — ‘‘ I know that would vex you, because it would 
not be nice to the poor county. It might hurt it if it came 
to know. But really these mixed entertainments,” dole- 
fully, “ are very trying, and this one,” with a disdainful 
moue, ‘‘ is even a trifle more higgledy-piggledy than its 
fellows. Oh! yes. I have been very dull. Very!” 

She sighs admirably, and shrugs her shoulders with a 
little pout. 

“ The fact of its being mixed is a special reason why we 
should be careful to cast no slight upon it, ” returns the 
colonel, severely, with a pompous updrawing of his starched 
figure. He has changed his tune, having fallen into the 


214 


XADY BKANKSMERE. 


net prepared for liim. ‘'These — er — strange people have 
their sensibilities as well as we others. Selfishness, and — er 
— open disregard of the feelings of those not quite in our 
own class are defects that should be crushed!'’^ He gazes 
sternly at her. As if overwhelmed by this reproach Mrs. 
Vyner subsides gracefully behind her fan, from the sheltei 
of which barricade she casts a mirthful glance at Mrs. 
Amyot. 

“ You are always right,’’ she murmurs presently in a 
small submissive voice. “ But I do so want to go home.” 

“ I see the duchess has not yet gone. Perhaps to avoid 
even the appearance of giving offense we had better stay 
another hour.” 

He gives himself an air of determination and walks off 
with his most military stiffness. 

“ Hear old man!” breathes his wife, tenderly, following 
his departing figure with a lingering glance replete with 
feeling — of a kind. ‘ ‘How generous! how noble-minded! 
how self-sacrificing he is! See how willing he is to resign 
his own comfort and linger on here in a social martyrdom 
for an hour longer, now that he believes that I am — not 
enjoying myself! Ah, Sir Robert, my ice at last.^ What 
a time you have been absent. I quite thought you had 
been making it. ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

‘ Who purposely cheats his friend would cheat his Grod.’* 

The heavy, hot silence that is lying over everything out 
of doors, seems to have rushed inward and wrapped all the 
house in its languor. Every available curtain has been 
drawn to exclude the tyrant sun. The halls and galleries 
are dim with a soft twilight gloom. The drawing-rooms 
and boudoirs are suggestive of growing night, though it is 
still early in the afternoon. The huge bunches of lily of 
the valley are drooping and dying in their Chelsea bowls^ 
The tall tree-ferns are languishing. The dogs lie upon 
the marble pavements panting for air, their mournful eyes 
looking liquid reproach at Nature, their red tongues hang- 
ing helplessly from their jaws. 

The stillness that reigns all round is great enough to be 
felt; no footsteps fall upon the tessellated floors, no gay 


LADY LRANKSMEKE. 


215 


laughter rings through the deserted gardens. They have 
all started on their fourteen-mile drive through the richly 
wooded country to the tennis match at Lady Blount's. All 
save Lady Anne, who has gone down to the village to see 
the vicar's wife — a distant connection and a crony of hers 
— and Lady Branksmere and— Staines. 

Even the poor old Primrose woman has gone forth, true 
to her colors. That she ought to have been in her bed re- 
penting her last night's fatigue goes without saying; but, 
like the gallant old soul she is, she has made a splendid 
struggle in the cause of Mammon, and has sallied forth to- 
day to court fashion once again. Rather than desert the 
past she has so bravely defended for over half a century, 
she has braved the terrors of the miles and the stony 'roads 
and is now jogging along the sultry highways and bowling 
through the scented lanes as though age and she have noth- 
ing in common. Not that the miles she travels can seem 
long to her, as she is at this moment lost in slumber in a 
corner of the carriage, snoring frankly with her bonnet all 
askew, to the undisguised delight of Mrs. Amyot, wdio, 
with Halkett and Tommy Paulyn, have been told off to 
take care of her. 

Over Branksmere the stillness remains imbroken, save 
for the discordant scream of the strutting peacocks uj^on 
the terraces without, and the distant, drowsy cooing of the 
cushat doves in the woods far down in the valley. At last 
there comes a rustle of soft garments in the dim hall, the 
click of a light footstep, and one of the big dogs, rising 
lazily, gives himself a mighty shake, and goes to meet his 
mistress. Almost at the same instant a side door is slowly 
opened, and Captain Staines emerges from the gloom be- 
yond. 

‘‘ Good-morning, or, rather, good-evening, now," he 
says, in a carefully careless tone, taking her proffered hand, 
which feels warm and tremulous within his grasp. Under 
liis idle air his nature is all alert, and he scans her features 
warily to take note of any confusion that may color them. 
But she is as cold, as indifferent, as self-possessed as though 
last night's occurrence had never been. If he is disaj)- 
pointed in his search for knowledge his face does not betray 
him. 

True," returns she, as though the thought had been 
forced upon her. ‘‘ It is already noon." Her low, tragic 


216 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. 


voice, soft and sad, seems in unison with the hour, the 
day, and the solemn silence and dimness of the place. 

Your headache is better?^ ^ asks he, hopefully. I 
knew the intolerable heat last night was bound to knock 
you up. The arrangements were far from perfect. They 
have made a prisoner of you all the morning.-’^ 

As a rule, neither heat nor cold affects me — in fact, 
nothing does much,^’ replies she, calmly, ignoring, or not 
seeing the motive of his speech. But I confess my head 
was a trouble to me to-day."’^ 

I have been thinking that perhaps half an hour or so 
on the island — ^you know how fresh it always is there — to- 
gether with the row across, would do you good,'^ says 
Staines, in an ordinary friendly tone. 

There is scarcely time, is there She looks at him 
absently, as though it is a matter of indifference to her 
whether she goes there or anywhere else, as indeed it is. She 
glances up at the clock. ‘‘It is now very nearly four. 
Those people (smiling) “ will be coming home again , and 
will expect me to be here to give them their tea. 

“ Tut! that will not be for hours,^^ retorts he, gayly. 
“ I^ot until you have had time to be there and back again, 
over and over. Free your conscience on that score. I 
promise you shall be back here before they are. 

“ That, of course: I wonder if I could get to the island 
and home again in two hours? Now that you have put it 
into my head I feel as if the lake is the one thing I desire. 
Oh, for a breeze! And there might be a small one there. 
She presses her hand wearily to her forehead. 

“A foregone conclusion,” cries he, gayly. “Let us 
start at once, then, if your return at the time you say is 
imperative.’^ 

Beneath his seeming 'bonhomie there is Ipng a strong 
eagerness. Time is moving away from them, and any 
moment now may bring Branksmere home to keep the ap- 
pointment with Muriel, of which she is ignorant, and 
which Staines has pledged himself to prevent. 

“ Come, then,” she says, languidly, moving toward the 
open hall-door, being already prepared for an afternoon 
stroll, with the help of a huge hat with heavy waving 
plumes and a pair of gloves that reach up to her elbows, 
and a big white umbrella that breathes defiance at old Sol. 

The walk through the shady wood beneath the scented 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. 


217 


pines is rich with a sweet fragrance. The widening leaves 
are casting shadows on the mossy turf beneath^ and the 
oppressive heat of the more open land is here subdued and 
saddened. It is the fading away Qf spring, the dawning 
of summer, a season full of — 

‘ ‘ Sweet days and roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie, ’ ’ 

and where winds are hushed, and speech grows low, and 
where a languorous noontide seems at one with the happy 
laziness that fills our blood. 

The way has seemed neither long nor wearjdng, though 
it has been traveled in almost comparative silence, and it 
appears a sort of surprise to Muriel when at last they come 
to its end and emerge upon the borders of the lake, where 
in a picturesque hut sits a ferryman during the warm 
months to row the visitors at the castle to the exquisite lit- 
tle island now basking in the sunshine, about half a mile 
from the shore. 

Stepping into the boat, Muriel, with a vague sense of 
rest and pleasure full upon her — a rest that has been un- 
known to her for some time — draws off her glove and lets 
one white slender hand drag idly through the pleasant water. 
Great water-flags touch her now and then, and many other 
trailing weeds, wave-worn and drooping ■’neath the sun^s 
hot glance. Gaudy flies of every hue dance lightly on the . 
ripples, and further out upon the very bosom of the lake 
the tremulous lilies sway indolently with each softest mo- 
tion of the wind or water. 

Leisurely the boatman plies his oar, and presently brings 
them to the tiny beach that belongs to the island. Still in 
her new dreamy mood, Muriel steps ashore and walks away 
from the boat and round the little curve of rock that leads 
to the upper plateau. She has almost forgotten the ex- 
istence of Staines in this vague new-born peace of hers, and 
is altogether unaware that he has lingered behind her to 
say a word or two to the ferryman. Presently, however, 
as she hears him hurrying after her, she comes back to the 
present with a little start. 

'‘You told the man to w^ait,^^ she asks, anxiously. 

You know my stay here must be short. 

" I told him that,^^ reassuringly. " I warned him you 
should be home by a certain hour, so I suppose it will be 


218 


LADY BIIANKSMERE. 


all/ right. Let us forget time for the moment/^ gayly^ 

“/and try to enjoy to the full this delicious afternoon.'’^ 
ff A little trembling wind has arisen, and is blowing right 
/ into their faces. It is so blessed a thing, coming as it does 
^ after the intolerable heat of the morning, that Li^y Branks- 
■ mere with a quick sigh of delight, sinking on the soft 
sward, throws off her hat and gives her burning forehead to 
its cooling caress. 

Far away the calm oceanAs glinting brightly. “ Above 
the soft sweep of the breathless bay the silver gulls are 
flying, hovering, looking for their fishy prey. Inland 
rushes the noise of the mysterious waves as they beat their 
breasts against the st^ny rocks! 

And still Muriel sits here dreamily; and still her com- 
panion sits beside her, never addressing her, never striv- 
ing to break the curious silence in which she has inwrapped 
herself, content in the thought that she is willing he should 
be with her. A word here, an insinuation there, a careful 
hint, the useful tact that teaches him when to speak and 
when to be silent (as on the present occasion) — upon all 
these powerful means Staines depends to win his way with 
her in the end. 

“ A falling drop,^^ says Lucretius, “ at last will cave a 
stone,'’ ^ and in so far Staines agrees with him. Persever- 
ance, thorough and rigid, will win the day, long after more 
daring methods have failed. 

The yellow haze that hung over everything is now dying 
-away. Evening is declaring itself. MuriePs thoughts, 
whether they be sweet or bitter, are certainly all-master- 
ing, as they still keep her chained to this island fastness, 
although the day is declining, and the first wild glory of 
the sun has departed. The flowers lift their heads as the 
great heat dies, and over the lake the swallows dart upon 
their homeward way. 

Perhaps the strange sense of unreality that belongs to 
evening begins to oppress her now, because she shivers a 
little and lifts her head. Yes! Her calm hour has come 
to an end. She must rise up and go back to her unrest 
Is anything lasting? Is it the cruel law that all good 
things must have a speedy end? And she had been happy 
here! The skimming swallows catch her eye as they flit — 
now so low down upon the water that almost their breasts 
seem to touch it, now so far above her in the pale blue of 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


219 


the air that their twitterings cease to sound in her ears. 
Their very gayety disheartens her. They are free from 
<jare, whilst she : — 

“ Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow. 

How can thine heart be full of the spring? 

A thousand summers are over and dead. 

What hast thou found in the spring to follow? 

What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? 

What "wilt thou do when the summer is shed? 
***** * 

Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, 

I know not how thou hast heart to sing,” 

She sighs wearily and rises to her feet. 

“ Come, let us return/^ she says in a low tone. It is 
already past the hour.^^ 

He rises, too, in obedience to her commands, and she 

f oing first and he following they arrive again at th« small 
each. It is deserted; neither boat nor ferryman is to be 
seen. 

‘‘ How is this?’^ asks she coldly, looking round at him. 
“It is very extraordinary — it is inconceivable,^'’ says 
Staines, gazing north, south, east, and west, with a large 
amazement in his eyes. “ I can^t imagine how the fellow 
could have misunderstood me, and yet — 

“ You told him to wait?’^ 

“ No. But I very fully explained to him that you wished 
to be home at a certain hour. I am awfully sorry if any 
mistake of mine has caused — 

She stops him with an impatient gesture. 

“ That is of no consequence at all,^^ she says, contempt- 
uously. “ The thing now to be considered is what is best 
to be done. 

“He can not be much longer away,” begins Staines, 
eagerly, but again she refuses to listen. She has taken out 
her watch, and is examining it with a frown of dismay. 

“ Half past five already,” she exclaims, in a low tone, 
addressing herself, as though ignorant or careless of his 
2:)resence. Indeed, she turns determinedly away from him, 
and begins to pace up and down the confined graveled 
space with angry uncertain steps. She is disturbed, un- 
easy, and indignant with the man who, however unde- 
signedly, has led her into a position that may be question- 
able, and Avill certainly be termed imprudent if discovered. 


220 


LADY BRANKSMEKE. 


Any suspicion of Staines having purposely misled the ferry- 
man as to the real hour she had named for her return is far 
from her, but in the first fiusli of her annoyance she can 
not altogether pardon him for having been its cause. It 
is hard to forgive the clumsy carelessness that will in all 
probability make her the cynosure of every eye when she 
returns at an overlate hour to her wondering guests. 

Again she looks at her watch. It is now close on six 
o’clock, and still no signs of the ferryman. Good heaveiis, 
if he were to forget to come at all! If some accident 
should have happened to him! As this horrible thought 
suggests itself the blood surges wildly up into her face,, 
only to leave it again whiter than before. What will they 
all say? What will be thought of her by Mrs. Vyner, with 
her sneering smile, by Mrs. Amyot, with her amused one? 

AVhat will be thought by . Her teeth close savagely 

upon her under lip, and she turns suddenly upon Staines 
with a *fierce vehemence, scorn and angry misery within 
her eyes. 

“ Do something!” she cries, bringing her foot dowm im- 
patiently upon the ground. 

AVhat can I do?” desperately. “All that is left me 
is to tell you how bitterly I regret — 

“ All the regret of which you could be capable would not 
get me home a minute sooner,” declares she, impetuously, 

“ AA^hy don’t you act 9 AVhy do you stand there with that 
incapable look upon your face? Surely ” — with a feverish 
fire in her eyes — “ something can be done. There must 
be a way of attracting the attention of some one on the op- 
posite shore. Is there no signal you can make to the man? 
He maybe there, he may hear you. The day — oh no,” 
with miserable correction, “ the evening is so still, that any 
sound will carry that short distance. Try something — any- 
thing. ” 

“ There is no need, the man is coming,” returns he, sul- ■ 
lenly, pointing across the lake to where a boat can be seen 
pushing slowly through the ’water-weeds that throng the 
bank. Presently it is out in the more open "w^ater, and as 
the nian is rowing vigorously, in about ten minutes or so 
he reaches them. Staines goes up to him. 

“What do you mean by being an hour late?” he de- 
mands in a loud, angry key. He has gained his object, 
her interview with Branksmere is now an impossibilit}". 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


221 


and though she will probably reach home before the others, 
this long, solitary ramble with him will undoubtedly 
damage her in the eyes of her husband. 

“ Fm not late, sir. The man is regarding him with 
surprise in tone and glance. “ It is not yet six o'’ clock. 

“ I desired you to be back here at five sharp, declares 
^Staines in a still more distinct and angry voice. 

Six, sir, begging your pardon,^'’ says the man firmly. 

“Five, I told you! It is unpardonable her ladyship 
should be subjected to such neglect.'’^ 

“ I am very sorry, my lady,^'’ mutters the man, turning 
to Muriel with a respectful air, cap in hand. “ But I quite 
thought as how the gentleman had*said six.^^ As he speaks 
he glances at Staines with a curious, furtive air. There is 
a persistency about his manner that occurs to Muriel long 
afterward. 

“ You shouldiFt think, says Staines, beginning to blus- 
ter a little, but Lady Branksmere checks him. 

“ Enough has been said,'"’ she decides, quietly. It , 
was a mistake it appears. Let it rest. She sweeps past 
him to the boat. “ The thing is to get home now with as 
little more delay as possible. 

The row across the lake is a silent one, and Muriel sj^rings 
upon the land with a sigh of relief. Staines, pressing half 
a sovereign into the ferryman^s hand, accompanies her 
swiftly down the narrow woodland path. The ferryman, 
gazing after him, scratches his head refiectively. 

“ What’s that for now, I wonder?^'’ He ponders to him- 
self, staring at the little gold coin upon his brown j^alm. 

“ He donT look like a gent as would be free with his tin. 
To keep silence, is it? Eh! But I knew ^twere six ’e 
said.'’'’ 

With hasty footsteps Muriel iiurries home. Already the 
god of day has sunk behind the hills in a red glory, and 
twilight is coming up from the sea. It is that most deli- 
cious hour of all the day, “ This hour dividing light from 
dark;'’-’ but for Muriel it holds no charms. One ray of 
comfort alone sustains her; she remembers that Branks- 
mere seldom returns from town until the seven o^ clock 
train, and surely she will be safe in her own room before 
that. As for the others, she may escape them. 

She may, and does for five minutes or so, but Branks- 
mere is standing in one of the open windows as she and 


222 


LADY BRAKKSJIEKE. 


Staines come down the avenue. Mme. von Thirsk is sit- 
ting in a low wicker- chair near him. 

“ Ah!'’^ she cries, with an impulsive air of relief, here 
is Lady Branksmere at last! We all know, leniently, how 
difficult it is to drag one^s self away from — the warmth 
of an evening such as this; but I am glad,^^ with a kindly 
intonation, “ that she ha ^ ■> 



arrival of the others. 


sharply 


pointed.’^ 

She sighs, as if sorry for Mrs. Vyner^s tongue, and ris- 
ing, moves toward the door. Branksmere makes her no 
reply. His eyes have met MurieBs, and are resting on 

them. Though some distance separates them, both can see 
that the other ^s face has grown strangely pale. 

After a moment or so, Branksmere drops his glance and 
leaves the window. 

“ That woman again mutters Muriel between her 
teeth. Her voice is very low, but Staines hears her. 

“ I have already warned you,^^ he reminds her, bending 
toward her. ‘‘ It will be insult upon insult, heaped And 

then, as she moves away from him through the dark old 
hall, he follows her to say a last impressive word. Ke- 
member! there is always a remedy I he whispers, in a low' 
tone. 


CHAPTEE XXXIII. 

“ Consider that the invisible thing called a good name is made up 
of the breath of the numbers that speak well of you.” 

She has barely time to go to her room and put herself 
into the hands of her woman before the arrival of her guests, 
returning from Lady Blount’s tennis-match, makes itself 
felt in the house by the sounds of gay laughter and the 
click-clack of high-heeled shoes running up the stairs. Mrs. 
Amyot knocks at the door in passing to ask if her headache 
is better, and with a vile sense of hypocrisy full upon her 
she answers, Yes, a little, though the headache certainly 
had been there in the morning, and no faintest untruth 
had been uttered about it. 

She is feeling tired, worn out in soul and body, and it is 
with a sense of physical comfort that she sheds her walking 
attire and lets Bridgman clothe her in the looser, easier tea- 
gown, of wdiite terry velvet, that sits so charmingly upon 


LADY BRA^TKSMERE. 


223 


her lissome figure, and is undesecrated by faintest spot of 
color. As the maid is putting a last finishing touch to 
her, Muriel asks her a question that is yet hardly one. 

“ Lord Branksmere has returned?'^ she says. 

‘‘ Oh, yes, my lady. He returned by the four o^clock 
train. He inquired for your ladyship, but I told him you 
had gone for a walk with Captain Staines, as your head 
was bad.’’^ 

‘‘ And?^^ 

‘‘ He was put out, my lady, as was natural; very much 
put out. Afterward he had a late luncheon with Madame 
von Thirsk, and after that went up to visit her ladyship, 
the dowager. 

A strange look comes into Muriehs eyes. 

‘‘ T am afraid he had but a dull afternoon,^ ^ she says, 
lightly, in a perfectly changed tone. ‘‘ Did her ladyship 
keep him long?^^ 

“Ho, my lady. But he was not so altogether dull as 
you fear. Madame kept him company in the library for 
some time. But he did seem real disappointed — almost 
vexed one might say — when he did not find your ladyship 
on his coming back from town. He is in the picture- 
gallery now with madame. Would your ladyshij) wish 
to—"" 

Ho! Her ladyship would not wish to see him! 

Bridgman being dismissed presently. Lady Branksmere 
rises from the chair and her enforced calm, and begins to 
pace feverishly up and down the room. So he had returned 
then at four! he who had never yet been known to get back 
from town until about half an hour before dinner! What 
had hastened his movements to-day-^to-da^ when he had 
believed her safe at Lady Blount "s with her guests? Was it 
an arrangement between him and madame? « Had she de- 
cided upon sta3dng at home to receive him? All his air of 
disappointment at not finding her, his wife, at home must 
have been acted for Bridgman"s benefit, for the saving of 
his own lost honor. Good heavens! what insults are show- 
ered daily on her head! Was ever woman so hemmed in 
by them? To stoop to deceive her waiting-maid, to 
tend to surprise at her mistress" absence, knowing well in 
his heart all the while that the mistress was miles away! 
Oh, the shame! the duplicity of it. She clinches her 
haiids, and her lips grow white with passionate resentment 


224 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


and that sense of injury that only the woman betrayed can 
feel. 

What was it Staines had said at that moment at the foot 
of the stairs ? ‘ ^ A remedy I” ‘ ‘ There is always a remedy; 

always. She was to remember that. So she will. Hah! 
see that they do not drive her too far. More than one can 
l^lay at this damning game that he — ^her husband — ^^(oh! 
tlie ignominy of it!) — has chosen as his pastime. 

She brings her teeth down sharply on her under lip, and 
stands as one transfixed, horrified, yet fascinated by the 
terrible possibility she has permitted to dawn upon her. 
Then suddenly she leans back against the table behind her 
and bursts into a low wild laugh, that is more forlorn than 
tears — sadder than despair. Checking it abruptly, she 
takes up her handkerchief, and with the last remnant of 
that reckless mirth still alight within her gleaming eyes, 
goes to the south gallery to meet her guests. 

Mrs. Amyot^s voice reaches her as she steps from behind 
a large screen. 

We are disgracefully late, that pretty butterfiy is say- 
ing to Lord Branksmere. ‘‘We richly deserve the scold- 
ing that I hope Lady Branksmere will not give us. And, 
after all, I don^’t know why we stayed. It was stupid to 
suffocation, and Lady Blount, as we all know, is — Well, 
wretchedly so, isn^t she now? You agree with me?'’'’ 

“ Entirely, says Branksmere. 

“ So you see Lady Branksmere. had no loss. But I am 
afraid she must have found it very lonely liere, all by her- 
self.^'’ 

“.Terribly lonely — all by herself,'’'’ returns Branksmere, 
with a grim smile, looking straight at his wife as she comes 
slowly toward them over the polished floor, her long white 
dress trailing behind her. 

“ Oh, no, I was not lonely,” says she, in a sweet, clear 
voice. “ I went for a row on the lake with Captain 
Staines, and the fresh bi-eeze there did my head all the good 
in the world. '’ ^ There is a touch of defiance in the glance 
she directs at her husband. 

“ Ah, there is no doctor like a — retired military man,’'’ 
lisps Mrs. Yyner, her little hesitation so slight as to be 
noticed by only one or two. 

‘ ‘ I hope, my dear Muriel, you took the herb-water I 
prescribed for you this morning,” pipes old Lady Prim- 


LADY BRAKKSMEEE. 


225 


rose anxiously. 1 told your woman to be sure and make 
you take it. It is infallible. I always give it to Primrose 
in town, when his head feels queer, and he says it works 
wonders. ^ ^ 

“ So it does — on the heads of the passers-by,^ ^ mutters 
Primrose, sotfo voce, because I always chuck it out of the 
window.-’^ 

“ What a naughty little flower you are!^^ whispers Mrs. 
Amyot, with a smile and a glance that brings back Hal- 
kett to her side without a second^ s delay. He had been a 
little inclined to wander afield, but this touch of coquetiy, 
directed at another, restores him to his proper level at once. 
He forsakes Margery, who, accompanied by Bellew and 
Peter, has come over, more to walk off a restless mood than 
for anything else, and who in truth in her present mood is 
not desirous of his company. 

Pm tired, says Halkett, with a sigh, sinking down 
beside Mrs. Amyot, who pulls to herself, with a very gentle 
but meaning action, the soft loose folds of her tea-gown. 
The heavy black Spanish laces cling to her obediently as if 
to indorse the decision of their mistress to draw back from 
him now, at once, and forever. But if this action of hers 
has meaning, Halkett declines to see it. “ I have plenty 
of room, thanks,^ ■’he murmurs, sweetly, don ^t crush your 
pretty gown. But country life is very vigorous, is it not? 
A ball last night — fourteen miles of a drive to-day, with 
unspeakable stupidity at the end of it. It is just the trifle 
too much, eh?^' 

So you seem to think. 

‘‘ HonT you f Bless me,^^ says Mr. Halkett, leaning 
forward to examine her more critically, “ now I come to 
look at you you don’t seem to have a vestige of fatigue 
about you. Not a hair turned. How I envy you your 
staying powers! How I wish,’ •’ plaintively, “I were as 
strong as you are. ” 

At another time Mrs. Amyot might have laughed here; 
now she looks politely vague. 

‘‘ I wish it too,” she says, with a stolidity that sits fun- 
nily upon her in spite of her stern determination to have 
nothing to do with badinage of any sort. ‘‘I could wish 
nobody anything better than health like mine. Ah!” Her 
tone suddenly changes to one of warmest regard. Is that 
you, then, my Tiny tuff ! my sweetheart!” holding out her 


226 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


arms to a fluffy little white Maltese terrier, who is rolling 
toward her with tongue en evidence. “ Come here, then, 
to its mistress, my love, my mouse, my cat. 

She lifts the pretty thing on to her laces, and buries her 
face in its silky hair. 

“ Odd, now!"’"’ says Halkett, with a meditative air, ‘‘ do 
you know, until this very instant, I was always of opinion 
that that priceless animal was a dog. Fact, I assure you! 
Just shows how fancy will run away with one at times. 

“ A passing fancy, yes,^^ returns she, with a small, swift 
glance at him from under her drooping lashes. 

“ It wasn^t an evanescent affair by any means,^^ declares 
Halkett; don ^t get yourself to imagine it so. On that 
score no excuse can be laid to my folly. It was a 'bona fide 
belief. I would have sworn it was a dog!” 

At this moment a huge greyhound, that up to this had 
lain perdu, approaching Mrs. Amyot, makes a snap at the 
dainty favorite lying upon her lap, seizes it bodily, and 
with a savage shake drops it on to the floor. A piercing 
shriek bursts from the terrified Maltese, as it breaks loose 
from its assailant and runs to hide itself amongst the lace 
skirts of its mistress. The latter, who has turned pale 
with fear, lifts it hurriedly and clasps it to her bosom. 
Meanwhile Halkett had driven away the greyhound, who 
disappears somewhere into the recesses of the curtained 
windows. 

“ What a savage beast, ” breathes Mrs. Amyot, faintly. 

How he terrified me and my poor little lambkin here."’*’ 
She caresses with tenderest looks the still trembling terrier, 
crouching in her arms. 

“ DoiFt!'^ entreats Halkett, feebly. If you call it by 
any other name, however sweet, I shall be undone. As it 
is, my brain is on fire. If a* cat, how can it be a mouse? 
if a mouse, how can it be a lamb? if a lamb, how a cat? 
The question goes round and round, and there is no an^ 
swer to be found for it anywhere. ” 

‘‘ What a cruel, premeditated attack. Did you watch 
it?^^ demands she, gazing at him with liquid eyes. The 
treacherous brute! To make such a wanton war on my 
poor little pet.^^ 

IFs my opinion that he hasiiT done with him yet,^ * 
says Halkett, mysteriously. ‘‘ There was a look in his eye 
as I drove him off — a greedy look — that spoke of a banquet 


LADY LRANIvSMERE. 


227 


assured on the morrow. Take my word for it, he has made 
up his mind to your little incongruity! He^s as good as 
gone already. I shouldnT put off the evil hour if I were 
you: prolonged torture is wearing: Td pull down all the 
blinds without an instant^ s delay: put the household into 
state mourning, and get up a pathetic funeral.-’^ 

I^m so glad you are amused,^’’ says Mrs. Amyot, with 
a withering glance. 

‘‘ I have always thought there was something wrong with 
my countenance. Now I know it.-’^ Mr. Halkett looks 
melancholy. When I am literally sunk in a very slough 
of despond, I am told I am in wild spirits. Do you really 
believe I should find amusement in the slaughter of your 
little innocent? Your little rara avis? No! There is 
nothing invidious in that appellation. No hidden sarcasm. 
I see no earthly reason why that remarkable animal W 
yours, if he can be a cat, a mouse, and a lamb,- all in one, 
shouldnT be a bird too!^^ 

You are without feeling,^^ says Mrs. Amyot, resent- 
fully. At least so far as I am concerned. For me you 
reserve your nastiest moods. Why? I wonder. What is 
it that I have done to you?^^ 

‘‘Ah! what indeed, returns Halkett, leaning toward 
her, and under cover of the small dog^s hair stroking with 
tender touch her little fair hand. “ I leave your conscience 
to answer that.^^ 

“You told me only last night I hadnone,^^ murmurs 
she, coloring delicately, 

“ I say many things, remorsefully, glancing up at her, 
“ that I donT mean. There is perhaps only one thing I 
ever say to you that is entirely true — entirely. 

“ And that?^^ The eyes that are gazing into his have 
grown suddenly full of tears, and her breath comes with a 
soft eagerness from her parted lips. 

“ Pah! if I told you again, you would but laugh at me, 
as you did that first time,^^ exclaims he with a touch of 
bitterness, and rising abruptly he moves away from her. 

Lady Primrosa has now got hold of Muriel. 

“•I do trust, my dear, you did not stay long on that 
lake,^^ she is saying with ponderous anxiety. 

“ Nothing so unwholesome as a water mist, and there 
was sure to "be one uprising on such a day as this. She is 
so deaf, poor old soul, that she always talks at the top of 


228 


LADY BKANKSMEKEo 


her lungs, being perhaps under the impression that her 
neighbors are similarly afflicted, so that all she says is given 
to the gallery in general. 

“There was no mist, I think. I felt no unpleasant- 
ness,^^ replies Lady Branksmere calmly. Only Margery, 
who is watching her with sad eyes, notices the convulsive 
twitching of the white hand hidden in the folds of her 
gowno 

“ Of course, Branksmere, being with you, would see to 
that,^^ croons on the old lady, whose intellect having 
grasped the fact that Branksmere was not at Lady Blounk’s 
can no further go beyond imagining that if not there he 
must have been with his wife. “ Nothing so good as a hus- 
band, my dear,^^ with a benevolent smile, “when all is 
told.^^ 

Deadly silence, broken only by a murmur from Mrs. 
Vyner, which is understood by all but Lady Primrose. 

“ You will bear me out,^’’ she is whispering mildly to 
Curzon Belle w, “ that I always said the dear old creature 
was in her dotage. DoesnT that speech confirm it?"’"’ 

“But I think she looks tired, Branksmere — she looks 
pale,^^ calls out the mistaken old lady across the room. 
“ I doubt you kept her on that lake too long."’’’ 

“ I donT think so,'^ says Branksmere. He lifts his head 
and gives way to a curious little laugh. “ That lake pos- 
sesses charms for her of which we know nothing. She 
would have pined all day but for the benefit she derived 
from its air. He says all this with the most natural 
manner possible, but Muriel writhes and winces inwardly 
beneath each sharp cut. How dare he take her to task ! 

“That may be,^^ goes on Lady Primrose, dubiously. 
“ But I suffered so much from headaches myself at one 
time that I feel the greatest sympathy, my love,^^ laying 
her trembling old hand on MuriePs cold irresponsive one, 
“ for those who now have to endure them. I remember 
well how Primrose — my husband, my dear — used to have 
to bathe my brows by the hour together with lavender- 
w^ater. It was the only thing that did me good, and his 
touch was gentle as a girPs. It was just before my son 
was born,^’ nodding across to where the last Primrose of 
Aer life, at least, stands “blooming alone. “Ah! His 
father was indeed one in a thousand. I never could bear 
him out of my sight in those days!^^ 


LADT BRAKKSMEi 


“ Your father must have been the me. 
of his day/^ says Mrs. Vyner, who can 
impertinent in her little babyish way. 

‘‘Now that I come to think of it, in spite c 
virtues — and they were many — my father, I fear, > 
regarded by you as a very ordinary individual,-’^ 
Primrose, simply. “But, after all, you know thei. 
women who not only love, but respect their husbands.^" 

“ Specially when they are dead,^^ smiles Mrs. Vyner, 
agreeably, who is not to be subdued by any man born." 

“ Do you ever get Branksmere to try lavender-water 
with yoiir head, my love?^^ asks Lady Primrose of Muriel^ 
with gentle investigation. 

“ No.^^ Muriel, who has grown even paler, shakes her 
head. “ I do not have so many headaches as you suppose, 
and when one comes to me I find my maid can do for me 
everything! require. 

“ Ah! a maid is not a husband, puts in Lady Primrose, 
strongly. 

Every one seems struck with this. 

“ ‘ Age makes the sage,-’ quotes Halkett, gravely, in 
a low tone. “ Let us be grateful for small mercies, in that 
the old lady has at last stumbled upon an incontrovertible 
fact. Any one,^-’ looking round nim, “ prepared to dis- 
pute the truth of her remark ? Could a maid be a husband V ^ 

No one, it need hardly be said, takes any notice of him ! 

“ I always think one^s own woman understands one so 
much better than any one else,^'’ says Mrs. Amyot, good- 
naturedly, seeing the set expression of MuriePs mouth, and 
tlie ill-suppressed frown upon her brow. 

“ Well, at all events she is looking too white to please 
me,^^ declares Lady Primrose with some faint insistence. 

“ I don’t believe in that lake, I don’t indeed. Don’t take ^ 
her there again, Branksmere, if an old woman’s advice is 
worth following.” 

“I won’t,” returns Branksmere, and again he laughs 
unpleasantly A suspicion that he is seeking to shield her 
from Lady Primrose’s censure waking within Muriel’s 
breast, drives her to an open declaration of the realities of 
the question at issue. ^ 

“ Branksmere was hot with me on the lake to-day,” she 
says, coldly, but distinctly. “He went to town by the 
early train this morning.’^ 


DY BKAN'KSMERE. 


I quite understood him to say — What 
>ranksmere? And if he was not with you, 
yas — eh? eh?^^ 

.y Primrose! Do you know I quite forgot to 
util this moment — ^but — breaks in Margery^s 
eet voice, ‘‘ I have discovered that new knitting 
diat so puzzled us last week. Willie knew all about 
It is the prettiest thing; see — dropping on her knees 
oefore her, and taking up the eternal work-basket that 
ever accompanies the old countess — let me show it to you 
now while it is fresh upon my mind. One. One, two — 
one, two, three- — a turn — ^you quite see? and then back 
again. It has the happiest result 

It has indeed I Lady Primrose growing enthusiastic over 
the new stitch, Muriel makes her escape to a distant tea- 
table, where comparative calm, at least, is obtained, until 
the dinner-bell rings, and she is enabled to make her es- 
cape to her own room. 

Dinner is a rather languid aifair, most of the guests be- 
ing too tired to even make a pretense at conversation, and 
by ten o’clock all have melted away to their several apart- 
ments. Muriel, with a long sigh of heartfelt relief, flings 
herself into a lounging-chair in the pretty satin-hned nest, 
half boudoir, half dressing-room, that opens out of her 
bedroom; and gives herself up to the luxury of being en- 
tirely alone, without fear of interruption. Now at last 
she can think; can review her day; can give herself up 
completely to the emotions that are swaying her. Lean- 
ing back in her chair in her black evening-gown, she 
jiresses her Angers against her aching lids and seeks to con- 
centrate her thoughts. 

A slight noise startles her. Hastily lowering her hands 
from her face she looks up. Loifl. Branksmere is standing 
on the hearth-rug a few paces from her, gazing at her in- 
tently! 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea.” 

His face is white and stern, a sullen frown has gathered 
on his forehead; beneath his bent brows his eyes look out 
on her, fllled with su2)pressed fire. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


23 L 


‘‘This is an unwarrantable intrusion/^ says Lady Braiiks- 
mere, rising slowly to her feet, and standing now with her 
hand resting upon the back of her chair. She glances 
swiftly at the door as if to assure herself that it is indeed 
locked as when she herself five minutes ago had turned the 
key in it. He must have come then through the bedroom. 

“Not more so than usual/ ^ coldly. “My presence — ■ 
anytoliere — is an intrusion now, if you happen to be there. 

“ What has brought you?^^ asks she, haughtily, gazing 
at him with ill-concealed dislike. 

“I have come to demand an explanation,^ ^returns he, 
deliberately crossing the room to close the door by which 
he had entered. His very action had such determination 
in it that it startles her. 

“ Explain! What should I have to explain replies 
she, proudly. She lifts her eyes to his as though to court 
his scrutiny — experience having taught her perhaps that 
this is the safest way to escape from it — but to-night her 
plan, if it is one, fails; his eyes refuse to go down before 
hers; he takes even a step that brings him nearer to 
her. 

“ You will be kind enough to tell me,^^ he says, slowly, 
“ what it is you mean by your friendship with Captain 
Staines/^ 

“Take care,^^ cries she, suddenly; “this is rather a 
dangerous tone for you to take witli me — is it not? Con- 
sider, Branksmere! before you rouse me to recriminatioTio 
Have I no fault to find, think you? have I no wrongs?'^ 

“ Let us come to that later on, if you will,^^ returns he, 
in an unmoved tone. “ At present confine yourself to the 
question in hand. I wish to know how matters stand be- 
tween you and — ^your guest/^ 

‘ ‘ Yours — rather. 

“ True. I had forgotten his double dishonor there. 

“ Honor is a word that seems to trip lightly from your 
tongue,^"’ sneers she with ineffable contempt. “ Is it then 
a thing so dear to you?” 

“ So much of it as lies in your keeping I shall at least 
look after,” retorts he, steadily. 

Her large eyes flash. She flings the feather fan she has 
up to this been almost unconsciously holding far from her 
toward a distant lounge. She misses her aim, however, 
and it comes with a crash to the ground. Branksmei’e, 


LADY BRAXKSMERE 


233 

with a coolness that literally grates upon her excited 
nerves, goes slowly up to it, lifts it and places it noiselessly 
upon the table near. 

That you have come here with the express purpose of 
insulting me,^^ exclaims she, bitterly, ‘^is plain enough. 
Yet I hardly think there was need for it. Every day, every 
hour I spend beneath your roof is filled with such affronts 
as only the meanest of your sex would dare offer to any 
woman. ^ 

‘‘ I must again beg of you to keep to the matter under 
discussion. As I have already said, I can listen to your 
side of the affair later on. 

‘‘ What is it you want with me?^^ asks she, with sudden 
vehemence. “ Be quick! Let me hear it. I am tired, 
worn out. I would be alone. She beats her foot impa- 
tiently against the floor. 

‘‘If you are tired, sit down. He pushes a low chair 
toward her. His tone is still studiously calm. “ I shall 
not leave this room to-night until I have had an answer 
from you, and come to some understanding.^^ 

“I am placed at the bar, it appears, murmurs she, 
with a curious smile. “ State your case then. Let me 
know of what I am accused. What fancied wrongs are 
yours 

“I seldom have fancies — coldly — “I have refrained 
from speech until you yourself have rendered silence no 
longer possible. When your name is made public property, 
when it is in the mouths of all, I feel — 

“ Be silent interrupts she, imperiously. “ I want none 
of your comments. Tell me only of what it is you accuse 
me/^ 

“Of your intimacy with your former lover^^ cries he, 
with the first touch of violent anger he has shown. His 
nostrils dilate, his breath comes heavily through his white 
lips. “ Last night you made yourself conspicuous with 
him before the entire county; to-day, under the pretext of 
a headache, you absented yourself from your guests, refused 
to accompany them to Lady Blount’s that you might have 
an uninterrupted afternoon with him.” 

“ It is false,” returns she, vehemently; “ my head did 
ache. I stayed away from Lady Blount’s; yet it was by 
the merest chance that I went on the lake with Captain 
Staines, ” 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


233 


‘‘ Pshaw exclaims he scornfully. 

Listen to me or not, as you will,^^ haughtily — I had 
no intention of going on the lake until long after they had 
all gone to that tennis-match.^^ 

“ And was it the merest chance, too, that kept you on 
the island with that — fellow — ^for three long hours — short 
hours, rather, with a pale smile. 

“ Did she tell you all that?^^ asks Lady Branksmere, 
slowly. A strange little laugh breaks from her. “ She is 
indeed invaluable. What more did your spy impart to 
you? Perhaps she told you, too (though, no doubt, she 
omitted that part of the story), how it was I spent so long 
upon the island? However, that hardly matters. That 
would not be an interesting part to either her or you. Let 
me rest as vile as you bgitli would fain make me out.-’^ 

‘‘ Can you deny that you deliberately refused to comply 
with my request for an interview this afternoon?” 

I know nothing of any interview. But if I am to he 
unjustly condemned for so many things, one more is of 
little consequence. ” Then all at once she turns upon him, 
and her wrath breaks out, “ How dare you so speak to 
me,^^ she cries, you who turned back from town by an 
early train to spend your time with Madame von Thirsk, 
believing me to be safely out of your way at LadyBlounPs! 
Oh, it is wise of you to turn the tables upon me lest I be 
the first to bring an accusation. But you need not have 
sunk so low, I should not have questioned you. Look here,^^ 
cries she, throwing out her arms with a gesture of weari- 
ness, ‘‘ I suppose it is that I no longer care, I give in. 
Do what you will without fear of censure from me. I feel 
deadened, emotionless. You have killed within me all feel- 
ing, all sensibility."’^ 

/‘To follow your rhapsodies is beyond me,^^ says Branks- 
mere, with a shrug. “^But I regret that you should con- 
sider it necessary to disclaim all knowledge of my having 
asked of you that interview.’^ 

“ When I say I know nothing of it I speak only the 
truth. ” 

He looks at her searchingly, but her eyes meet his boldly, 
“You mean to deny that you were unaware why I left 
town to-day by so early a train?” 

“ Ho,” contemptuously. “ On the contrary, I gave you 


LADY BRAifKSMERE. 


fully to understand that I am quite aware of your reason 
for having done so. 

Attend to me^^^ exclaims he, sternly. ‘‘ A^our flip- 
pancy will not serve you here. That you got the flowers I 
sent you last night I know, although you cast them aside 
that you might wear others worthier in your eyes.^^ 

‘‘ There, too, you are mistaken, she is beginning hur- 
riedly; but she checks herself. She is tired of this useless 
explaining. Why press upon him a fact he is so determined 
not to believe? Certainly I received your flowers,^ ^ she 
finishes, coldly. 

And my note in them.^^ 

“ There was no note; no message of any sort.^^ He re- 
gards her for a moment very fixedly, and then his lips curl 
in a slow disdainful sneer. By a supreme effort she con- 
trols her temper and i^oints to a distent table. 

‘‘ There are the flowers you sent, go search them for this 
suppositious note of yours. She had expected him to 
take no notice of this command, but to her surprise he 
turns and walks doggedly toward the table indicated, lifts 
the bouquet from the bowl in which the maid had placed 
it. What a waste of time to hope so to impress me,^^ 
she mutters to herself, watching him with a supercilious 
smile. A smile that fades, however, and gives place to 
angry astonishment as he pulls from the center of the flow- 
ers a note carefully folded and holds it to her. 

‘‘ ITou see I did write,’ ^ he says, tranquilly, no touch of 
triumph in his tone. Mechanically she takes the ])aper 
from him, but makes no attempt to open it. She has 
grown extremely pale, and her hands are trembling. 

I never knew it was there,” she declares at last, like 
one dazed. ' He bows profoundly. Is there a touch of 
mockery in his salutation? 1 swear I never knew it/ ^ 
repeats she, eagerly, taking a step toward him. 

I do not ask for excuse or apology. Pray sjmre your- 
self and me,” returns he, icily. She draws even nearer to 
him, her large stormy eyes fixed on his. She has thrown 
up her head, and with an action suggestive of unrestraina- 
ble passion has crumpled the note she holds in her clinched 
hand. 

You believe me?” she demands, in a low, choked voice. 

Ko!” replies he, with a terseness that is almost brutal. 


LADY BRANKSMEKE. 


235 


There is a long pause, during which they stand staring 
at each other, hatred and defiance in their gaze. Then — 

‘‘ Coward!^'’ hisses she through her trembling lips. 

“ JSTay, it is you who are the coward, retaliates he, 
calmly. “It is through fear that you have thus lied to 
me.^^ 

“ Do you think that I am afraid of you?” cries she sud- 
denly, with vehement scorn. “ You must be mad to talk 
to me like this. Where are you seeking to drive me? What 
is to be the end of all this, think you? Afraid! and of 
you I I tell you I defy you — to your face I defy you.^ ^ 

The night is dark and chill, the wind has risen. A fire 
has been lighted in the grate, and the red glow from it 
lights up her shimmermg gown, and quivers like a flame 
around her shapely head and statuesque figure, now strained 
to its full height. Her face is like marble, out of which 
her eyes gleam dark and fierce. The intensity of her pas- 
sion only lends another charm to her exceeding beauty. 

“ There is no occasion to tell me that; you have done so 
openly ever since our luckless marriage, ” says Branksmere, 
bitterly. “ I owe you many tilings. 

“ For the second time I warn you to beware, exclaims 
she, losing all control. “ Are your actions then so alto- 
gether pure that you can afford to take me to task? You 
— you — who keep that shameless woman under the same 
roof with your wife!’"’ 

“ Do you know what you are saying?” demands Branks- 
mere, fiercely, grasping her arm. “ Prove your words. 

“Oh! that I could,” breathes she wildly. “ That I 
could prove anything that would set me free from you.^-' 

“ Free to give yourself to another!” He lets her go ab- 
ruptly, pushing her roughly away, and a sharp jarring 
laugh breaks from him. “ Pah! you play too open a game. 

I fear it is not in your power to furnish yourself with those 
proofs you so eagerly desire.” 

“You mean — ” Her voice is curiously low and calm. 

“ That you would welcome any dishonor that would fling 
you into the arms of — your lover!” 

It is said! Nothing can recall it! There is a momenPs 
awful silence, and then Branksmere falls quickly back from 
her, a dark red st^n across his cheek where her palm ha^l 
struck him. It is all done and over in a moment, but for 
a full minute he scarcely recovers himself. Then it is to 


23G 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


find the room empty. For in the tumult of her rage Lady 
Branksmere had caught up a shawl and hurried from the 
room — the house! 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 

I shall remember while the light lives yet, 

And in the night I shall not forget.” 

The stars are hidden by the dense bank of clouds that 
makes dull the heavens, but a pale watery moon sheds here 
and there a vague pathway through the earth that helps 
Lady Branksmere to find the woodland path that leads 
from the Castle to her old home. Swiftly, mechanically, 
she moves toward it, conscious of little but that she is leav- 
ing behind her misery too great to be borne. 

Her brain is still so disturbed, her thoughts so wild, that 
she can hardly concentrate them upon any one feeling; 
yet through all the confusion a sense of self -horror per- 
vades her being. She is ashamed! that is the principal 
pain — ashamed down to the very innermost depths of her. 
She had raised her hand against him; she, Muriel! A 
touch of loathing, of cruel self-contempt, cuts into her 
already seared and bruised heart. She is smitten with re- 
morse, stricken to the earth — not for him, but for her own 
pride, for the dignity that had once enveloped her. 

Yet she sheds no tears. Why should she? What good 
would they do? Were she to weep her miserable eyes blind 
what would she gain by it? Would the Fates be at last kind? 
Would her grief propitiate them? Would they turn be- 
cause of it, and succor her? 

With blind haste she hurries along the little beaten track 
beneath the shadowy leaves until a sudden turn in it brings 
her face to face with the walls of her old home, gleaming 
gray in the growing moonlight — the only home, she tells 
herself with throbbing heart, that she will ever know. 
Some instinct draws her feet to the quaint iron-bound door 
of the armory, and laying her hand upon it as one might 
who is sure of entrance, even at this late hour, presses it 
from her to find her instinct true. The door yields, and 
she moves quickly onward into the irregular, vaulted pas- 
sage beyond. ^ 

It is unlighted, but a stray beam, flinging itself through 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 


237 


the stained window at the lower end, gives her a lead, and 
shows her the stone steps that bring her finally to tlie en- 
trance hall above. The house is wrapped in silence, though 
at the furthest end of the hall one lamp is still burning in 
vague, dull fashion. An intense longing to gain Margery^s 
chamber, unseen, unheard, drives her to the staircase; but 
on her way the sound of soft laughter that seems to issue 
from a room upon her right, checks her progress. Turn- 
ing aside without thought, she opens the door of this room, 
and enters it so softly that her coming is unheard. 

Here the lamps are burning brilliantly; the heavy silken 
curtains are closely drawn; a small, but eminently cozy 
little fire is coaxing an equally small kettle to sing witli all 
its might. There is a tiny tea equipage upon a gypsy table, 
and upon another table near it a fowl delicately roasted, a 
tempting pdU, a Dresden bowl full of strawberries, and a 
long-necked bottle. Before the fire, in pretty, loose white 
robes, sit Mrs. Daryl and Margery: at the side, Angelica, 
in a costume that might suggest to the intelligent on- 
looker that she had been summoned from her bed at a 
moment’s notice. There is indeed an air of refined 
Bohemianism about the trio, and a subdued desire to prove 
to themselves and each other that servants are a snare and 
a swindle, and that every one could get on much better 
without them. 

“ I didiiT believe a kettle, a s^nxall kettle, could take so 
long to boil,^^ Mrs. Daryl is saying, anxiously leaning over 
the fire. “ When it makes that little fussy noise, it's boil- 
ing, eh?" 

I'm certain of it," agrees Margery, gladly. ‘‘ Let us 
make the tea." 

“It isn't thinking of boiling,^ ^ declares Angelica. 
“I've boiled hundreds of kettles, and I know all about it. 
First it must sing, then the steam must pour out of its 
nose, and then it is all over, and — ^you take it up. " 

She is looking at Margery as she speaks, and at this 
identical moment the kettle gives way to the ebullition of 
which she has been speaking. Puff, puff, goes the steam 
all over the place. 

“If you mean we," cries Margery, pushing back her 
chair, “ I couldn't do it, at all; I couldn't really. It's 
an abominable little thing. How angry it looks! I 


238 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


wouldn’t touch it— to say nothing of lifting it bodily from 
the fire — for anything that could be offered. ” 

As she speaks, she turns quite round, and thus brings 
herself face to face with Muriel, the poor, rich, titled thing, 
who would have given all her possessions to-night to be 
able to mingle with them, with a heart free from care, in 
their gay idlesse. Even the fire has sent a vague touch of 
warmth and comfort into her angry heart. As she meets 
Margery’s glance, she makes a step forward. 

The rustle of her gown, joined to Margery’s silence, 
rouses Mrs. Billy from her tragic examination of the 
kettle. She turns, and would perhaps have given way to 
the expression of dismay that rises to her lips, but for the 
swift glimpse she gets of Margery’s face. The girl is 
livid. In a second Mrs. Billy has conquered herself, and 
is advancing toward Lady Branksmere with rather an in- 
crease of the dehonnaire manner that belongs to her. 

“You are just in time,” she cried, with an air of open 
jollity that does her credit. “We have been dining at 
that wretched old Sir Mutius Mumm’s again, and as usual 
have come home starving. The servants for the most part 
were in bed; so Margery and I decided upon making a raid 
on the larder for ourselves, and we haven’t done so badly, 
have we? The only drawback to our success lies in the 
fact that I have made up my mind to a cup of tea, and the 
kettle has proved too much for us. But you have had a 
good long walk, eh? You are tired! Meg,” with a swift 
glance at Margery, ‘ ‘ will you and Angelica make yet an- 
other predatory incursion, and see if you couldn’t impound 
some Madeira. ” 

Margery, obeying the look that bids her take Angelica 
out of the room, beckons to the latter and goes hastily 
- upon her errand. When the door has closed upon them, 
Mrs. Billy turns to Muriel. 

“ Now, what is it?” she asks, promptly. 

“It is of no use your banishing Meg,” returns Lady 
Branksmere, coldly. “ She must know it all soon. The 
whole world will know it. I have left that place forever.” 

“You have left your husband?” 

“ If you wish to put it so — yes. For myself, I feel more 
as if I had left Madame von Thirsk and all the vile associa- 
tions that have degraded my married life. ” 

“All?” questions Mrs. Billy with a searching glance. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


239 


That is a hazardous hint to throw out to a woman in 
MurieFs frame of mind she well knows, yet to refrain from 
it seems cowardice. Lady Branksmere takes it rather bet- 
ter than she expected. 

‘‘ You, too, condemn me then?^^ she says, slowly. I 
have no friend anywhere. 

“ DonT encourage morbid nonsense,^ ^ says Mrs. Billy, 
directly, in a strong breezy tone. ‘‘See here; I think you 
had better sit down and tell me all about it.^^ She presses 
her gently into an arm-chair. Exhausted, physically and 
mentally, Muriel leans back among the cushions, and sighs 
heavily. Then suddenly she breaks into a recital of her 
wrongs; not loudly or passionately, but in a cold angry 
way that somehow is more impressive. Once or twice dur- 
ing her hurried explanation of her presence, Mrs. Daryl 
had changed color, and now it is with her face partially 
averted that she speaks. 

“ This man — this friend of yours — Captain Staines,^* 
she says. “ He is in the way, it seems to me. 

“ Not in my haughtily. 

“ In yours principally, I should say. Has he not, per- 
haps, some other acquaintances who would be glad to re- 
ceive him for a time?'’^ 

“ I shall not tell him to go if you mean that. I, who 
have been so grossly insulted, shall not be the one to give 
in, and by such an act almost acknowledge myself in the 
wrong. " 

“ Get rid of Captain Staines,’’^ says Mrs. Billy, a little 
doggedly, and almost as though she had not heard her. 
Neither of them had noticed the entrance of Dick some 
minutes before, or, if they had, had given it no thought. 
He had been as usual buried in his beloved books in the 
library, and had perhaps heaid. the noise of MurieBs com- 
ing. He had certainly evinced no surprise at her presence 
on entering the prettily lighted room where she now is, 
and had offered her no greeting. As though fearful of dis- 
turbing her story, he h^ dropped into the chair nearest to 
the door, and, resting his elbows on a table close to him, 
had let his chin fall into his palms, and so listened intently 
to the revelation that in her hot wrath she had poured 
forth. Perhaps he had had his doubts before about the 
happiness of this his favorite sister; perhaps now he is bent 
on solving them. There is something about the tall, pale, 


240 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


bookish lad suggestive of suppressed but excited thought. 
As Muriel pauses, hardly knowing what to say to Mrs. 
Billyh’s persistence, he produces himself, and comes eagerly 
forward. 

‘‘ Billy is her eldest brother. Billy should be told,^^ he 
says, with a touch of imperiousness in his tone that reminds 
one strangely of Muriers own. He looks as he speaks at 
Billyhs wife, who receives the charge with great gallantry. 

‘‘ First we must think/^ she says. 

“ If you donH tell him to-morrow, I shall. The em- 
bryo statesman warns her stolidly, with a flame in his eyes 
that belies the calmness of his tone. He lays his long, 
nervous fingers on MurieFs wrist, who starts and trembles 
out of the sad waking dream into which she has fallen, 
and, turning, looks at him. He is so tall, so pale, so 
young, this defender of hers, so pure at heart. She draws 
her breath bitterly as she stoops and presses a kiss upon 
that loving hand. 

When the boy has gone back to his midnight oil and his 
ambitious dreams so surely to be fulfilled, she turns again 
to WiUielmina with a softened air. 

“ I didnH know he was here,^^ she says. Is he always 
up so late?^^ 

‘‘ Very often. 

“ Too often,'’’ vehemently. “ Did you see how white 
his beautiful face was?” 

‘‘ Yes. It is desperately bad for him, I know, to so 
squander his hours of rest, but he is a genius, it seems, and 
when you fall in with one of that sort, I guess you had bet- 
ter give him plenty of line,” says Mrs. Billy, with a sage 
nod or two. She would perhaps have said more but that 
here Margery and Angelica re-enter the room; Margery pale 
and depressed, Angelica distinctly curious. 

‘‘ Do not send me away again,” cries Margery, softly, 
appealing to Muriel. “ I am so unhappy! There is some- 
thing wrong, I know; something between you and Branks- 
mere?” 

“ You see what folly it would be to aim at secrecy,” 
says Muriel, bitterly, to Mrs. Daryl. “ Instinct has 
pointed out to her the truth.” 

‘‘Oh! is it about poor George?” exclaims Angelica, re- 
gretfully, who had long ago elected to like “ poor George,” 
and to find a wide field for pity in the barrenness of his 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 241 

wedded life. ‘‘ What an unfortunate thing it is that you 
can’t love him!" 

This innocent speech has the effect of a bomb-shell 
thrown into their midst. 

‘‘Go to bed, Angelica," cries Lady Branksmere, start- 
ing to her feet and trembling visibly. “ It is horrible that 
children like you should be allowed to have a voice in — " 

“I am not a child, interrupts Angelica, plaintively, 
who is indeed deeply grieved at the thought that she has in 
some way given offense. “ And I did not mean to hurt 
you, dear Muriel. It is not your fault, I know. It is 
quite as sad a thing that he canT love you I” 

Lady Branksmere shrinks away from her. 

“ Angelica, how can you?" cries Margery, indignantly, 
and Mrs. Billy, coming to the rescue, lays her hand on the 
unfortunate Angelica's arm and guides her to the door. 

“ But what is it — what have I done?" protests she 
through her tears. 

“ Everything — nothing," returns Mrs. Billy incoherent- 
ly. “ You will understand when your own time comes. 
Never mind what you have done; what you have got to da 
now is to— skedaddle.-’^ 

She pushes the girl softly out of the room, and Angelica 
in high dudgeon disappears from the scene. Margery is 
kneeling beside Lady Branksmere, and has taken her sis- 
ter^ s cold hand in both hers. 

“ TeU me what has happened," she entreats, looking 
round at Mrs. Daryl. 

“ There has been a misunderstanding. It will not last, 
I trust, " explains Mrs. Billy in a low tone. 

“ Why do you seek to soften matters?" exclaims Lady 
Branksmere, irritably. “ I tell you, Margery, I have left 
him. I have left a house where all day long I was insulted 
by that woman^s presence." 

“ If you think there is anything between her and your 
husband," begins Mrs. Billy — 

“ Think 

“ Well, why donT you go straight to him and just put 
it to him that you canT be happy while she remains at the 
Castle? Speak boldly to him. Throw yourself on his gen- 
erosity. I believe half this is mere imagination of yours. 
And at all events, speak. AVhy should one be afraid of one^s 
husband.^" 


242 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


Along-drawn breath escapes Muriel; ‘‘ you are 
a happy wife/^ she says; ‘‘ you can not comprehend a case 
like mine/^ Her hands fall inertly into her lap in a weary, 
purposeless fashion, that goes to Margery’s soul. 

‘‘Demand the truth I” persists Mrs. Billy in a tone 
slightly raised in the hope of rousing Muriel from her sad 
musing. 

“ And what if I have done so,” says she at last, “ and 
got no satisfaction?” 

“Do so again and again until you do — one way or the 
other.” 

“I can not,” declares Muriel, wearily. “I am tired 
of it all. And even if I would, opportunity is denied me. 
That woman of late haunts him; they are together from 
morning till night.” 

“ But not from night till morning,” says Mrs. Billy, 
briskly. 

Muriel’s lips grow white. She throws out her arms pro- 
test ngly. 

“ Who can say V* she answers in a low voice full of terri- 
ble suspicion, her eyes on the ground. 

Mrs. Daryl is shocked; Margery bursts into tears. 

“ Oh, Muriel, darling, why will you destroy your own 
happiness by harboring such sad beliefs? I am sure 
Branksmere in his heart is true to you, but there are little 
things that — ” 

“ Pshaw!” says Lady Branksmere impatiently, pushing 
her away. “ Am I a fool to be cajoled by such words as 
these? Put faith in him, you, if you will — it will doubt- 
less ’ ’ (bitterly) “ save you trouble — but I — who Tcnow I It 
is monstrous, I tell you.” 

“ But it seems to me,” persists Margery eagerly, “ that 
he is not that — that kind of a person. He is too self-con- 
tained perhaps — but hardly dishonorable.” 

“ Well, I have not come here to listen to Branksmere ’s 
praises,” says Muriel, rising abruptly to her feet, with a 
short laugh. “ If you are a partisan of his, of course I 
need not trouble you with my views of the affair. If I can 
not get sympathy here in my old home, from my own sis- 
ter, I need hardly look for it anywhere. After all,” with 
a miserable attempt at indifference, “ why should I expect 
any one to enter into my griefs?” 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 243 

‘‘ DonH speak to me like that, Muriel/^ cries Margery, 
‘‘ Between you and me such words are cruel. 

“ Let us think what is best to be done,” breaks in Mrs. 
Billy, in a matter-of-fact tone. 

“ There is nothing to be done.^^ Lady Branksmere 
turns upon her with flashing eyes. ‘‘Do you imagine I 
am going to truckle to a man who is not false to me, but 
who takes me to task for my behavior with — with one who 
is an old friend 

“ An old lover, corrects Mrs. Billy, in a strange tone. 
“ Let us keep to the strict facts. You were alluding to 
Captain Staines 

‘ Oh, Muriel, there is something to be said about that,” 
cries Margery, a very agony of nervous horror in her eyes. 
To have to speak! Who shall estimate the misery of it? 
“ Think, darling, think,-’ ^ she says, and then, with trem- 
bling hands outheld, she goes closer to her sister. “ Oh, 
dear, dear heart,” she sobs, “ give up all thought of that 
bad man.” 

“Who is bad?-’^ asks Lady Branksmere, coldly, with 
willful miscomprehension. “ Branksmere?’^ 

“ No, no,” miserably. “ Captain Staines, Muriel! Be 
warned about him in time. I don’t know why, but instinct 
tells me to distrust him. Oh, darling, I know you mean 
nothing — ever— hut wLat is good and sweet, but if you 
could only understand how wretched you make me at 
times.” 

“ Do I?” Lady Branksmere is looking down at her with 
grieved eyes. “ Is it not enough, then, that I am unhap- 
py myself — but that it must be my luckless fate to make 
those I love unhappy, too? One’s life, one’s circum- 
stances, what scourges they may be!” She sighs heavily. 

“ Have a glass of wine,” says Mrs. Billy, who, after all, 
is nothing if not practical. 

At this moment the sound of a footstep in the hall out- 
side makes itself heard. Muriel starts into an intenser 
life, and, springing to her feet, looks with angry eyes to- 
ward the door. 

“ It is he,” he says. 


“ He has followed me.” 


2U 


LADY BRAXJvSMERE. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

The hatred of those who are most nearly connected is the most 
inveterate.” 

It is, in fact, Branksmere^s step. He had found his 
way through the armory door that she had. left open, and is 
now in the hall. A faint light coming from beneath the 
library door attracts his attention; involuntarily he turns 
toward it, and finds himself presently staring at Dick across 
a reading lamp. 

‘‘Where is your sister?^’ demands he, in an aggressive 
tone. 

“ Margery and Angelica are in the next room, I think; 
the twins in bed, retorts Dick, f rowningly. He has got 
upon his feet, and is looking at Branksmere with open 
enmity in his glance. “ Of my eldest sister you should 
know more than me.^^ 

“ Is she here?’ ^ 

“ That is a strange question for you to ask. Where 
should she be at this hour but beneath your roof — unless 
she was driven to leave it.” 

“ A truce to bombast,” says Branksmere, impatiently. 
“ By your manner I can see she is here. Go and tell her 
I wish to speak to her.” His tone is imperious. 

“ You are a scoundrel,” exclaims the hoy, choking with 
rage. 

Branksmere shrugs his shoulders. 

“ Your manners are hardly your strong point,” he says, 
with a contemptuous lifting of his brows. “ That, how- 
ever, fortunately, concerns you, not me. Where, is 
Muriel?” 

“With her own people. In her own home. What do 
you want with her?” 

“Not much at any time: yet there are moments when 
even a husband may find it necessary to have an interview 
with the woman he lias married. Will ‘ her own people,’ ” 
mimicking the boy’s somewhat grandiloquent air to a 
nicety, “ permit it, do you think?” 

“ I wonder you are not ashamed to mention her,” cries 
Dick, with a sudden burst of passion. “ Yes, she is here. 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


245 


She came half an hour ago. She went to Willy’s boudoir, 
I followed her there, and heard — heard — ^you know what I 
heard. She looked so tired, so worn. ” 

I don’t, I assure you,” said Branksmere, ignoring the 
latter part of his speech. “You give me credit for far too 
much perspicacity.” 

“ She came in looking so white, so tired, so worn, that 
even you, had you seen her, might have felt some pity for 
her in your cold heart.” 

“I shouldn’t,” replied Branksmere distinctly. “At- 
tribute to me no extra graces, I entreat you. Pity for her 
is the very last thing I should have felt.” 

“I should have known that,” says young Daryl, in a 
low voice, who is now fast losing his self-control. “ Muriel 
prepared me for it.” 

“ Muriel is a fool, and you are another,” says Branks- 
mere, coolly. I am not!” 

The blood recedes from Dick’s brow and his large eyes 
glow. With an inarticulate cry he rushes forward and 
flings himself upon his adversary. In a moment he has 
his young lithe fingers fastened into his collar. He is a tall 
lad, but slender, and in less time than on^ can picture it, 
his attack is at an end, and Branksmere has him in his 
powerful grasp. Twisting his arms behind him so as to 
leave him powerless and at his mercy, he looks for a min- 
ute full into the boy’s defiant face. 

“ The same blood,” he says, with a sneer, that ends in 
a groan, and by a sudden movement he releases his foe and 
Bends him staggering back a few paces from him. For a 
little while he regards him with a stormy expression in his 
oyes and then — “ Pshaw!’’ he says, contemptuously, and 
turning on his heel quits the room. 

A few steps bring him to that other rpom where three 
pale women are awaiting his coming — one, indeed, stand- 
ing forward with her eyes afire as though eager for the 
battle. 

Entering, he closes the door heavily behind him, and 
looks straight at his wife, taking no notice whatsoever of 
Mrs. Daryl or Margery. 

“ It. is rather a late hour for visiting,” he says. “ Are 
you ready to come home.^” 

“ I am at home. ” 

“ Are you ready, then, to return to the Castle?” His 


246 


LADY BKAI^KSMERE. 


voice, though subbdued, is vibrating with rage. His face 
is white, his lips set. There is a dangerous light in his 
somber eyes. 

“ To prison? No!^"’ replies Muriel, defiantly. 

She had stood up at his entrance, and even taken a step 
toward him, and now confronts him with a whole world of 
scorn in her beautiful face. Her bare arms, white and 
rounded, are hanging by her sides, the hands clinched. 
Her bosom is rising and falling tumultuously. She looks 
surpassingly lovely in her scorn and anger; but to Branks- 
mere she might be a creature formed of Hature^s worst, so 
coldly does his glance rest upon her. 

I hope you will reconsider that answer, he says slow- 
ly. There is something in his manner and the set deter- 
mination of his tone that frightens Margery. 

“ Muriel, take care!^"’ she whispers, warningly, and 
places her hand on the back of her sister^s arm, and 
presses it stealthily with fingers that are trembling with 
nervous agitation. But Lady Branksrnere takes no out- 
ward heed of this gentle admonition. 

‘‘ I shall reconsider nothing.-’^ The words fall from her 
coldly, clearly. 

‘‘ Is that your final decision As he speaks he makes 
a slight movement toward the door, as though the parley 
has come to an end. It is evident to all that he is not go- 
ing to dispute the decision, or seek to alter it in any way. 
Mrs. Billy goes quickly up to Muriel. 

‘‘ I implore you not to let things go too far,^^ she says. 

Be reasonabble. The world^s opinion is worth a good 
deal.^^ 

At this, MurieHs long-felt irritation takes flight, and flame 
into life. 

‘‘ AVhat do you all mean?^^ she cries, with a burst of 
passion. “ Do you want to get rid of me? Am I a dis- 
grace to you?^^ 

‘‘Muriel! What folly I My dear girl, entreats- 

Mrs. Billy earnestly. 

“What can I think but that I am not wanted by any 
one, here, or there, or anywhere? May I not rest beneath 
your roof for even one night?^^ 

“If you leave my roof (under such circumstances as 
these) for one night, you leave it forever,^ ^ interposes 
Branksrnere, sternly. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


247 


‘‘ An awful threat truly, exclaims she with a short laugh 
full of reckless defiance. 

“ OhI Muriel!’^ implores Margery, beneath her breath, 
who is now sobbing bitterly. 

Am I to understand that you encourage Lady Branks- 
mere in her present conduct?^ ^ demands Branksmere, turn- 
ing furiously at this juncture upon Mrs. Billy. He had 
not heard her whispered advice of a moment since, and 
plainly regards her as an accomplice. Mrs. Billy very 
resents his tone. 



‘‘1 tell you what, Branksmere, returns she with con- 
siderable spirit, you are taking the wrong turning here. 
Muriel has hinted to me such and such matters, and I will 
say that I think there are several little affairs down there 
— pointing in a characteristic fashion in a direction that 
she fondly but erroneously believes might take her to the 
Castle, but which would be quite as likely to take her to 
Japan — ‘‘ that you would do well to explain. 

‘‘ You will permit me, madame, to be the best judge of 
my own actions,^’ retorts he, icily. 

No, I won't,^^ says Mrs. Billy, with quite a beautiful 
immovability. ‘^In my opinion you are just the worst 
judge. I think well enough of you, you see, to believe you 
might explain if you only would, and I^d strongly advise 
you to do it before a crisis arrives. See?^’’ She nods her 
head at him vigorously. 

I see nothing,^^ replies he, coldly. 

Then all I can say is,^-’ exclaims Mrs. Billy with ex- 
treme wrath, “ that I no longer blame Muriel, and that if 
you were my husband I^d squash you/^ 

“ Providence, madame, probably foresaw that,^^ says 
Branksmere, dryly. He makes her an almost impercepti- 
ble salutation and turns again to Muriel. 

“ Are you coming?^^ he asks with a frown. 

“ Yes; she is,’^ returns Mrs. Billy, unabashed. She 
throws, as she speaks, a light shawl round Muriel in a way 
that admits of no dispute, and- indeed Muriel, who is now 
looking tired and exhausted and hopeless, makes no effort 
to resist her. 

“ As you all wish it, as I am unwelcome here, and only 
a trouble, I will go,^'' she says, wearily. 

“ OhI no, darling! Do not speak like that,^^ sobs Mar- 
gery, clinging to her. 


248 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 


“ But not now— not just yet/" goes on Lady Branksmere, 
hardly heeding her tender embrace. ‘‘In a little while I 
will go back. But not quite now."" 

“ You will come now or not at all!"" Branksmere inter- 
rupts, doggedly. “ I will have no gossip — no damning 
whispers."" 

Margery lifts her head impetuously, and would have 
spoken but that Mrs. Billy checks her. 

“ He is right — quite right. Let there be no scandal/^ 
she whispers wisely. “ They both came down to visit us 
to-night. Both. Together. You will remember? It 
was an idle freak. There was nothing in it."" She pushes 
Muriel as she speaks toward the door. Branksmere, who 
is standing next to it, puts out his hand as his wife ap- 
proaches, and though still with a lowering brow, would 
have drawn hers through his arm. But with a gesture of 
extreme repugnance she pushes him aside and hurries from 
the room. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“ Jealousy is love lost in a mist.’' 

“ I don"t see how we can do much more to the altar 
without the grapes,"" says Margery, standing well back 
from the rails, with her charming head delicately poised to 
one side the better to comprehend the effect of her work. 
“ They should be here by this time. I doubt that Branks- 
mere"s gardener is a man of his word!"" 

“It is most remiss of him,"" says Mr. Goldie severely. 
Mr. Goldie is the curate; a young roan of faultless morals 
and irreproachable clothes, with bolting blue eyes and nice 
plump cheeks, who has been following Miss Daryl about all 
the day (indeed, for the matter of that, all the year), and 
who seems to have small object in life except to stare 
mutely at her, and hang upon her lightest ,word. So open 
has been his worship, so reprehensible, that sev^eral of the 
old maids flung loose about the parish have mingled exe- 
crations of him with their evening prayers, and have all 
had serious thoughts of reporting his abominable conduct 
to the bishop. 

Mr. Goldie has cared for none of these things. He is 


LADY BRAI^KSMERE. 


249 


now regarding his divinity with a frown upon his slightly 
narrow brow, meant not for her, but for the recreant min- 
ion at Branksmere who has dared to keep her waiting, and 
who, in Mr. Goldie’s eyes, is plainly on the fair road to 
make acquaintance with the new gentleman — who has 
kindly come forward to relieve us of our criminals — and 
his rope. 

Yet again a summer fair and sweet lies slain, and Au- 
tumn, that rich conqueror, is strewing the earth with his 
spoils. From Branksmere all the guests have melted away 
with sunny J une — some to a last week or so in town, some 
to their own homes in the neighborhood, some in hot haste 
to the Engadine, so intensely suffocating had the weather 
proved here. 

Tommy Paulyn has run down to stay with the Daryls 
for a while, and Captain Staines who had put in a month 
with the Adairs, has now hired a neat little box of a place 
about a mile from Branksmere, ostensibly for the shooting. 

To feel one’s self well into September — that mildest, 
tenderest, most mournful month of all the year — so full, 
as it is, of a glad past, so fraught with cruel fears of a 
harsh future, is to know ac^ense of the most chastened, the 
most exquisite enjoyment. The vicar, for certain goodly 
reasons, had been obliged to put off his harvest thanksgiv- 
ing festival until rather late this year, but now the ancient 
moss-grown church is alive with the voice of the decorator, 
and is so disorderly in appearance because of the branches 
and flowers and fruits and vegetable offerings so profusely 
flung in a helter-skelter fashion amongst its respectable 
aisles and decent pews that one feels instinctively sorry for 
the lost dignity of the poor old thing. Wreaths are hang- 
ing from, or twining themselves round, every availabb 
pillar; flowers are lying about in a gorgeous profusion. 
iS'othing remains to be desired save the Branksmere 
grapes. 

“ They will be here, soon, Meg. It was my fault — the 
delay,” says Lady Branksmere, who has come down to look 
around her perhaps, because she certainly hasn’t assisted 
them in any way. She is looking pale, and not altogether 
her best; one must be happy to look that. 

‘‘ Let us see to the completion of the chancel then,” says 
Mr. Goldie in his most pompous tone. ‘‘ I fear those we 
left in charge ” (he says the “ we ” with a fond but unfort- 


250 


LAL>y BKA^S'KSMEKE. 


unately rather foolish look at Margery), are not quite as 
steady as we could wish them/^ 

Miss Daryl, with an inward regret that she can not make 
him as unsteady as she could wish him, follows him into the 
presence of a most boisterous group who are busy amongst 
ferns and cauliflowers. Tommy Paulyn on the top of a 
ladder is giving way to much abuse of the boys, interlarded 
with tender speeches directed at the bevy of pretty damsels 
beneath. 

“ Dear me. Tommy, I never thought to see you so high 
up in the world, Miss Daryl calls out to him jeeringly. 
She feels her spirits rise as she gets into the middle of 
them, having been rather depressed by Mr. Goldie^ s atten- 
tions during the last half hour. 

“ ITl descend to your level in a moment or two,^^ re- 
sponds the Hon. Tommy, affably; “ meantime I wish 
somebody would do something. Here I am stuck up aloft, 
and not a soul will give me a helping hand. Have those 
massive edibles run short, or do the ferns grow shy? Who^s 
responsible for the loss of time? Shiver my timbers! but 
1^11 know the meaning of all this when next I set foot on 
terra firma. Heat and appropriate remark, eh. Miss 
Jones? Ladders are timbers. See? If you were to 
shiver my timber at this moment I should be— where should 
I be, Mr. Goldie?’" 

Mr. Goldie looks very properly indignant, and Miss 
Jones having suppressed her giggle, Angelica casts a with- 
ering glance at the unabashed Tommy. 

Come down,"" she says sternly. Mr. Paulyn, though 
plainly impressed by her severity, still hesitates. 

“ Angelica,"" he says in a propitiatory way. Ho answer.. 

“ ‘ Angel, ever bright and fair." "" Still the third Miss 
Daryl maintains a dignified reserve. 

‘‘ All right, then,"" says Mr. Paulyn, now driven to des- 
peration, I"ll come down and have it out with you."" He 
scrambles down from his perch, and having inserted his 
hands in Angelica’s arm, carries her off nolens volens to 
have it out in the church-yard. 

How pretty it begins to look,"" says Mrs. Daryl, gaz- 
ing round her at the bright leaves, and fruits, and flowers. 
She addresses Margery. 

‘‘ Very. They are all new designs, those arrangements 
over there. Curzon got them from town. From what 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


251 


house, Curzon? to one of the twins, who is soliciting 
her consent about something, “ indeed, not. You know 
you have a cold. You must not run about dhe church-yard 
without some 'muffling. 

‘‘Oh! Meg. ButrmsohotP^ 

“ Well,^^ relenting in part, ‘^you may go out for half 
an hour or so, but no more, because the evening is grow- 
ing chilly. You must come in then and put on your coat. 
Now be off, but remember — in half an hour I shall expect 
you. I depend upon you to come. 

The child^s face falls. 

“Ithink,^^ she sa3^s, disconsolately, “that IT put on 
the coat now, Meg, before I go. Because I don’t know 
what an half an hour is, and I’m sure I’m not to be de- 
pended upon.” 

Mrs. Billy, who is near, bursts out laughing. 

“What a conscientious little creature!” she says. 
“ There!” taking Blanche’s hand, “ you shall have some- 
thing nice for that when we get home; and now run away 
and be happy without your coat, because I’ll watch the 
time, and I’ll see that you are called in half an hour to do 
Meg’s bidding. ” 

“I’m so afraid of her catching cold,” explains Meg, 
apologetically. 

“ Whafc an impudent fear!” declares Tommy Paulyn, 
who has once more returned to their midst in high feather, 
with a propitiated Angel beside him. “ Catch your cold 
by all means, my dear Blanche, and hold it tight and bring 
it to me, and I’ll soon cut the head off it.” 

To Blanche this seems such an exquisite joke that she 
runs off, roaring with laughter in her small, happy way. - 

“ Look at Meg trying to wear out her fingers with that 
thorny stuff,” says Peter, admiringly. “Was there ever 
so ifiastic a being? Indolent to-day, full of pluck to-mor- 
row. Her nails are one of her good points, she might con- 
sider them.” 

“ It seems to me,” puts in Mr. Goldie, mildly, with a 
reproachful glance at the young men round them, amongst 
whom are Curzon Bellew and Mr. Paulyn, “that Miss^ 
Daryl might be spared such arduous work. Her zeal is so * 
} - it , strength.” 



supplements the Hon. Tommy, 


252 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


who seldom minces matters. It will play old Harry with 
her hands, and they used to be tolerable.'’^ 

‘‘ Your cousin, Mr. Paulyn, has the most beautiful 
hands in the world,^^ says the curate, solemnly. So 
white 1 so fine ^ 

“ Fine!^^ echoes Peter, with a gay laugh. “ They slioula 
be. Why, I should think they ought to be almost kissed 
away by this timeT^ 

Upon two of the audience this startling remark makes a 
distinct effect. Mr. Goldie regards the speaker with a sanc- 
tified disgust, and Curzon Bellew looks as if he would like 
to slaughter somebody. Mr. Goldie, who happens to be 
nearest to him, first speaks. 

‘‘ I am sure, Peter, says the reverend gentleman, with 
ecclesiastical reproach, “ that your sister would be deeply 
grieved could she hear you ascribe to her such frivolous 
ways.^^ 

“ I haven’t ascribed anjthing to lier” declares Peter, 
who is growing amused. ‘‘It is the young men who have 
reduced her poor paws to this present state of attenuation 
who ought to be taken to task. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I think it is not well that you should in such a public 
— in fact in such a — er — sacred place, discuss your sister at 
all. It would be offensive to many, I am sure, to be spok** 
en of. Could she — that is, would she — I mean — fioun- 
dering hopelessly — “ were she the object of my affections I 
should- — ’ ’ 

“Oh! Mr. Goldie, to call poor Margery an ‘ object!^ I 
wouldn’t have believed it of you. And we used to think 
you quite her friend! Margery!” calhng lustily, “ do you 
know what Mr. Goldie says of — ” 

“ No, no; no, I entreat!’* exclaims the poor curate, al- 
most laying his hand on Peter’s mouth, who is in ecstasies. 
“ I meant — only to defend your sister from — ” 

“ And who the deuce are you, sir, to set yourself up as 
Miss Daryl’s champion?” exclaims Bellew, with a burst of 
wrath that has been gathering above the head of the luck- 
less curate for over a month. ‘ ‘ When she needs a friend 
to plead her cause, she will know where to look for aii older 
one than you!” 

After this, chaos — and a general rout. The by-standers 
very wisely abscond, and even Margery herself very meanly 
slips round a corner into the vestry-room, feeling assured 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


253 


that Curzon^s black looks and Mr. Goldie^s red ones have 
something to do with her. 

But in the vestry vengeance overtakes her. Mr. Goldie, 
either stung to action by Belle w^s conduct, or eager to 

put it to the touch, to win or lose it all/^ follows her 
there and lays himself, his goods and chattels, all (which 
is very little) at her feet. It takes only a few minutes, 
and then Margery emerges again into the wider air outside, 
a little flushed, a little repentant perhaps for those half 
hours of innocent coquetry that had led the wretched man 
to his doom — to find herself in the midst of a home-group 
composed of Peter, Dick, Angelica, and Mr. Belle w. The 
latter is standing gloomily apart; the others make toward 
her. . 

“ We saw him following you — well? What? He must 
have said something. We saw it in his eye — a sort of ‘ now 
or never, ^ ‘do or die ^ look. Get it out, Meg; you ^11 be 
any amount happier when you have got it off your con- 
science.^^ 

“ It is abominable of you all,^^ exclaims Margery. But 
even as this rebuke escapes her, so does an irrepressible 
laugh. 

“ Come; no shirking,^-’ says Dick, as she makes a futile 
effort to dodge them and gain the door beyond. “ I told 
you that gown would be the ruin of some one. It is too 
racy. 

“ And you look simply lovely in it!^^ declares Angelica, 
who is devoured with curiosity and thinks flattery a wise 
medium for the extracting of secrets. “ Now, go on; do! 
Tell us what he said to you. Did he propose to you? Meg, 
on your soul be it, if you lie!^"’ 

Margery^ s glance roves from one to the other. It alter- 
nates between an anxious desire to escape and be at rest, 
and a mild longing to tell them of her latest victory. 

“ Well, to tell you the truth — begins she. 

“ Oh, come! That wonT do. No liesT^ says Peter, 
tly. “ Did he, or did he mot, ask you to marry 



“ Why should he do that?’" asks Meg, at bay. 

“ Why shouldn’t he? I’m sure you’ve had him dang- 
ling after you long enough for anything. And to-day 
you’ve flirted with him at every opportunity and pillar, 
until even loe thought you meant to accept liim.” 


254: 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


“ Perhaps you thought right/ ^ says Miss Daryl, goaded 
into retribution. This S23eech is rOceived in silence. Evi- 
dently they hardly know whether, or not a grain of truth 
may be hidden in it. Mr. Bellew lifts his head with the 
quick action of one who is shot and looks straight at her. 

“ Oh, no, Meg,^^ declares Angelica gently. “You 
would not marry that conceited little man, I know. He 
thinks too much of himself to be anything but odious. I^’m 
sure he looks upon himself as the ‘ Church’s one founda- 
tion/ without which it would totter to its fall.” 

“You shouldn’t hurt my feelings,” returned Margery, 
with such a gay little laugh that at once equanimity is re- 
stored. 


“ Tell us how he got through it,” says Dick, seizing her 
arm. “ Perhaps there may be a brotherly pinch inclosed 
in his grasp, because he receives an instant answer. 

“ Well, he said — Oh, Dick, don’t — ” 

“ What a story!” exclaims Angelica, very naturally. 
“No. He said first in a solemn tone a pro 2 )OS of the 
decorations in other corners of the globe, ^It is a pity 
they should waste so much time over art, to the exclusion 
of the more vital matters!’ That was all.” 


“ All about persists Dick, who would have made 

a splendid inquisitor. “ But how about yourself? The 
last remark was in the style of the best form of tract; but 
what is he like when spooning, eh?” 

“ What did he sayr* asks Angelica. 

“He said,” returns Miss Daryl desperately, “ ^ Will 
you? Won’t you? Don’t you?’ At which I said (not 
dreaming what the old absurdity was thinking of), ‘ Shall 
I? Sha’n’t I? Do I? WliatV And then it all came 
out! And I’m sure I’m very sorry, because I never meant 
to encourage him. ” 

“ Not you,” says Peter. “ A scalp more or less is noth- 
ing to you, bless you. Well, and what did you say?” 

“ No; of course. I was so thoroughly unprepared that — ” 


“ ‘ Meg was meek and Meg was mild, 

And bonny Meg was nature! s child/ ” 

quotes Dick, sotto voce, 

“ You needn’t jeer at me,” says Meg reproaclifully. “ I 
may be bad, but, at all events, I am not worse! "And 1 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 255 

know I never led him on as far as I did the others, be- 
cause — ^ 

She stops abruptly, her eyes having by chance lighted 
upon the wrathful visage of Belle w, who has been lounging 
in the shade of the lecturn. 

It is just as well you didn^t accept him. He wouldn-’t 
suit you. He looks as if he belonged to one of the lost 
tribes,^"^ says Hick. ‘‘ Do you think he will bear malice? 
Must you give him a wide berth for the future 

Poor Mr. Goldie! No. He is a veiy good little 
man,"’^ answers Angelica, pitifully. 

“ What a heart of Gold,-’^ puts in Peter, mildly. 

I say, children, where are you all?^^ cries Mrs. Billy 
at this moment, calling to them through the gathering 
gloom. They run to her, all save Margery, who would in- 
deed gladly have beaten an ignominious retreat in their 
train, and so avoided the moody young man, so plainly ly- 
ing in wait for her. , But he proves too much for even her 
strategies. 

I want to speak to you,^^ exclaims he, grasping her by 
the ribbons that ornament the side of her gown as she en- 
deavors to slip past him. Of course the ribbons give way, 
and he finds himself the happy possessor of them, with a 
most indignant Margery demanding an explanation of his 
conduct. 

‘‘ I really do wish, Ourzon, you would try to learn the 
meaning of the word ‘ manners,^ she says, angrily, look- 
ing at the ravished ribbons. I have always told you your 
teftiper will be - your destruction. Now, see where it has 
led you.^-^ Secretly she is delighted at the chance afforded 
her of putting him in the wrong. 

I^m sorry for your gown,^'’says Mr. Belle w, who in- 
deed does look rather shocked. ‘‘ But speak to you I %oilL 
So all this last month, when you were pretending to be so 
quiet, you were caioling that miserable Goldie into falling- 
in love with you. 

“ What do you mean, Curzon? Do you know what you 
are saying? Are you going to tell me that I encouraged 
him?^^ 

“ You must have encouraged him disgracefully, when he 
had the — the audacity to propose to you,^^ 

‘‘ If you liadnH been meanly listening to what wasn^t 
meant for your ears, you wouldiiT have known that.^^ 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


So 6 

Certainly I listened. I shall always listen to anything* 
that concerns you. 

Well! Anything so dishonorable — 

‘‘ I donH care a fig whether it is dishonorable or not. 
I’m determined I’ll know, at all events. So that’s what 
brought yon to the weekly practice so regularly. All your 
interest in the fiddling and psalming of this wretched vil- 
lage choir lay in your desire to add yet another scalp to 
your belt.” 

“ Go on, don’t mind me,” murmurs Miss Daryl, with 
ominous sweetness. 

“ It was Mr. Goldie this and Mr. Goldie that. I must 
have been hlind not to see it all. . You permitted him to 
make love to you, and to consider himself your mentor in 
all things.” 

‘‘ Did I?” with awful dignity. I wasn’t aware of it. 
At all events,” with an angry flash from her soft eyes, I 
never gave any one permission to be my tormentor.” 

“ There can be no more abominable coquetry than the 
leading on of a man to offer you his best for the mere 
pleasure of refusing him. You know you never meant to 
marry him. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Is that my crime? Would you prefer that I should 
marry him?” 

“ Margery! What a speech to make to me!” 

“ Are you to have all the pretty speeches to yourself? 
Be happy, however, in the certainty that I shall never 
marry either him or you.” 

“ I have said perhaps too much. I have a beastly tem- 
per, I know, though I never seem to remember it until I 
am with you,” says Belle w, brushing his hand across his 
forehead with a sigh. ‘‘ But you don’t mean that, Mar- 
gery?” 

‘‘ To marry Mr. Goldie?” 

“No, not to marry me.” 

“ Certainly, I mean it.’’ 

“ Only last week you gave me to understand that you 
would be my wife.” 

“ ‘ Might ’ was the word used, I think. ” 

“Well, ‘might’ let it be.” 

“ I’ve changed my mind since then.” 

“ That’s the fifth time you have changed it this year.’^ 

“ Be satisfied. It shall be the last, I promise you.” 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


257 

You niean/^ growing once more wratliful, that you 
marry me?^^ 

“ That is it. 

“ But why?^^ demands he, indignantly. ‘‘ What^s the 
matter with me., I^d like to know? Why canH you make 
up your mind to it?^^ 

“ A jealous man makes a miserable home,” quotes she, 
sententiously. 

Who is jealous? Do you think I should feel jealous 
of that unfortunate little long-tailed parson in there?” 
pointing to the vestry door, behind which Mr. Goldie is 
supposed to be seated, clothed in sackcloth and ashes. 

Give me credit for better sense than that. No, I am 
only annoyed that you should — er — that he should — that — 
er — in fact — 

“ IVe should, suggests Miss Daryl, demurely, as he 
breaks down, hopelessly. 

There is a pause. He looks at her appealingly. There 
is so much submission in his glance that Margery, whose 
ill-tempers are fleeting, stealing a look at him from under 
her curling lashes, forgives him. She struggles with her- 
self for a moment, and then bursts into the gayest of j^retty 
laughs. 

“ I’m a cross old cat, am I not?” she says, penitently, 
tucking her arm into his. ‘‘ Never mind. I’m very fond 
of you, after all, in spite of your many enormities.” 

^ You are an angel,” returns he, with all the sweet folly 
of a real lover. He takes her hands and lifts them. 

, At this instant a piercing cry full of agony comes to 
them from the inner porch! Margery’s face blanches. 

“ What was that? What?” she cries, in a terrible whis- 
per. And then — was May^s voice/ ^ she says, and 
rushes past him to the spot whence the sound came. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

“ A viper in the bosom, who, while he was chill, was harmless; 
but when warmth gives him strength, exerted it in poison. ’ ’ 

Upok the stone pavement the little form is lying mo- 
tionless. The ladder from which she had fallen is still 
quivering from the shock. There is a moment’s breathless 
pause, and then it is Lady Branksmere — the cold, the im- 

9 


258 


LADY BEANKSMEKE. 


passive — who first reaches her. She gathers the little still 
child gently to her breast, holding her to her with a press- 
ure passionate, but very soft, and looks up at Ourzon — 
who, with Margery, is at her side almost at once — with a 
glance full of the acutest anguish. This little home bird, 
this small link upon the chain that binds her to all things 
good — is it going from her? 

The despair in her eyes startles Mrs. Daryl, and even at 
this supreme moment sets her wondering. If this un- 
demonstrative woman can thus love a little sister, how 
could she not love — She hardly finishes her own thought, 
a moan from the child going to her very heart. 

“ Let me see,'’^ says Ourzon, bending over Lady Branks- 
mere^s burden, as if to take it. 

“No, no," she entreats engerly. “But tell me the 
truth: she is not — " 

“ Of course not,^^ interrupts he, hastily. “ Her heart 
Is beating. The arms — yes — all the little limbs are sound. 
It is only E light matter, believe me. 

The child stirs uneasily in her arms, and, opening her 
eyes, looks vaguely round her, then once more sinks into 
unconsciousness. 

“ I will take her home with me. Who will go for a doc- 
tor?" demands Lady Branksmere, staggering to her feet 
with Ourzon^ s aid, but never losing her hold of the in- 
jured child. 

“ Peter has already gone. But we have told him to go 
direct home,^^ says Margery. “ Dear Muriel, the doctor 
will be there before us, so you see it would be madness to 
take her to the Castle. Come with us, and hear what his 
opinion will be." She breaks down a little. “Oh, it 
must be a favorable one,^ ^ she sobs, miserably. 

After all, it is! “ May had sustained a severe shock,^^ 
said little Doctor Bland; had fractured her collar-bone and 
bruised one arm very badly, but otherwise there was no 
reason for supposing she would not be on her feet again in 
no time. Lady Branksmere, having listened to this com- 
forting assurance, had suft'ered herself to be driven home 
with the declared intention of coming up again to-night to 
hear the very last account, at eleven possibly — certainly 
not before — as there were some prosy old country folk to 
dinner. 

It it now eleven, and a lovely starlit night it is; almost 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


259 


as the big clock in the further end of the hall gives up its 
last stroke, Muriel steps across the threshold of her old 
home, and wrapped in her big plush cloak hurries along 
tire hall and up the staircase to the room of the little in- 
valid. The hush, the silence, the lowered lamp, all seem 
to impress her. She falls upon her knees beside the pretty 
snowy cot, and gazes with anxious, sorrowful eyes at its 
small occupant. 

“ She looks already better. She sleeps placidly, she 
whispers, turning to Angelica. 

‘‘ All is well with her,^^ whispers Angelica back again. 

Do not be so troubled for her. She has taken nourish- 
ment and spoken to us all, and to-night Willie and nurse 
sit up with her; to-morrow night they have promised to 
Margery, and the next to me — with subdued pride. 

“ Wilhelmina is very good,^^ says Lady Branksmere, ris- 
ing to her feet. With the assurance of the child ^s safety 
there has returned to her her usual coldness and apparent 
unconcern. They have all been apportioned their night to 
watch beside the precious little suiferer — but there is noth- 
ing for her. She has been cast off from them. She has 
chosen her own bed, so let her lie. She kisses Angelica, 
and steals from the room. Below, Margery and Mrs. Billy 
meet her. 

She is better; immensely better. 

“ Going already, Muriel? But we could send you home 
in an hour or so. It is not very late. Barely eleven. " 

‘‘ I have my maid, Bridgman. She is as good as a regi- 
ment,^^ returns Muriel, faintly smiling. “ No, you must 
not trouble yourselves. I shall come up again in the morn- 
ing to see how the poor mite is getting on.-'-' 

Her manner is altogether changed; is kindly, but no 
longer consumed with anxiety. There is a suspicion of 
strain about it, and a chill that communicates itself. 

‘‘ Do let me order the brougham for you,^' says Mrs. 
Billy hospitably. 

No, thank you. No, indeed. Bridgman, as I have 
said, is invaluable, and I shall enjoy the run through the 
moonlit woods. 

She bids them good-night and disappears from them into 
the darkness of the rhododendrons beyond. 

It is an entire surprise to herself when half-way up the 
avenue, at the spot where one turns aside to gain the wood- 


260 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


land path that will lead into the Branksmere domain, a 
dark figure emerges from a clump of myrtles and stands 
before her. It is Captain Staines. A sense of caution, 
suggested by the maid’s presence, compels him to meet her 
coldly, and as one might who is surprised by her presence 
here at such an hour. 

‘‘ Rather late for you. Lady Branksmere, isn’t it? 
Hadn’t a suspicion I should meet anything human when I 
came up here to-night for my usual stroll. As a rule, my 
cigar and I have it all to ourselves.” 

Even Muriel herself believes him. 

“ My little sister was not well,” she explains, curtly. 
“ I came to bid her good-night, and hear the very last 
news.” 

Bridgman has dropped behind. In the increasing gloom 
of the trees, she is indeed nowhere to be seen. Captain 
Staines, taking Lady Branksmere ’s hand, lays it courteously 
upon his arm. 

‘‘ To see where those treacherous roots are lying in wait, 
for us across the path is so difficult in this uncertain light,” 
he murmurs, apologetically. And then in a lower tone,. 
‘‘ I heard to-night about your grief, your' anxiety. Oh, 
believe that I felt, too, not only for your grief, but for the- 
pain of that dear little child.” 

His tone is so sympathetic, so replete with real feeling,, 
that Muriel’s heart is touched. 

“ How is she now?” he asks in a low whisper. “ I 
would have gone up to the house to ask, but you know I 
am no favorite there.” 

The moonlight enables her to see the little sad smile- 
that mantles his countenance. Is she the cause of his rus- 
tication? A heavy sigh escapes her. She is feeling'Sore at 
heart, and now tliis stranger, this outsider, how kind he is, 
how good; how anxious to learn of the little one’s well- 
being! 

‘‘She is better,” she answered softly; “ and as for grief 
— there is always grief.” 

“ Not always. And even if there is, there is Love, the 
purifier, the sweetener of our lives, to step in and conquer 
it.” 

“ Is there?” Her tone is listless. Already a doubt of 
the love of those she had left behind in the old home is 
torturing her. She feels cast off, abandoned. 


LADY BEANKSMERE. ’ '201 

‘‘ Does your heart hold a doubt of it? Oh! Muriel, if I 
dared speak — 

“ Well, you dare not,^"’ interrupts she, coldly. “ I have 
your word for that. Once you forgot yourself. Once,-’^ 
with a burst of angry honesty, I, too, forgot myself. 
Let there be no repetition of the folly. Then abruptly,, 
“ When do you leave this place ?’^ 

“ I donT know. ’ I can not bring myself to leave it.^^ 

“ But why — why?^-’ with feverish impatience. 

“ I have told you long ago. I can not leave you and 
your troubles. 

“ What are my troubles to you?^^ demands she, fierce- 
ly. Let them lie. There is but one service you can do 
me. Yet you shrink from it. 

“ Why should my absence serve you?^^ asks he, boldly. 
“ Do you think he cares? Or is it that I give him a pre- 
text for — He checks himself suddenly. “ Do you think 
I have spent no weary nights over this question of my de- 
parture!^^ he breaks out presently, with a passion that, to 
do him justice, is only half -feigned; that I have not 
tried to tear myself away? I tell you that my love for you 
is too strong for me. It binds me here. And besides, 
there is the strange certainty that some day I may be of 
use to you. Griefs thicken; and if I can help you even 
ever so lightly, are not all these weary hours of waiting 
well bestowed? You bid me be silent; but how can I re- 
frain from speech when many of your sorrows are but too 
well known to me; your trials — 

“ Of which you are chief est,^^ cries she, with quick vehe- 
mence. “ Can you not guess what your staying means to 
me? Scorn, insult, contempt !^^ She presses her hands 
forcibly together. “ Go!^^ she mutters, in a low, com- 
pressed tone. ‘‘ When will you go?-’^ 

‘‘ Wheji yoit loill come loith me 

The words are spoken! Given to the air! Nothing can 
recall them! 

The thought that she is cold — shivering — is the first that 
comes to her. She gathers the slight covering on her 
shoulders tighter round her, and her large troubled eyes 
look out from the lace hood which shrouds her face with a 
sense of vague fear in them that is very sad. She turns^ 
them upon him. 


262 


LADY BKA2S''KSMERE. 


Is there no friendship she asks at last, slowly, sor- 
rowfully. 

“ What is friendship returns Staines. ‘‘ It is so poor 
a thing that no man knows where it begins or where it 
ends. A touch of flattery may blow it into a flame; a dis- 
pute about a flve-pound note will kill it. I do not profess 
friendship for you. I do not believe in it; there is some- 
thing, stronger, more enduring than that.* Muriel, trust in 
me.'’^ 

‘‘ There is no friendship, you say. Is there, then, 
faith 

“In those who love you?’^ eagerly. “Yes. If I have 
spoken too openly — too soon, forgive me. But should the 
day come — his voice sinks to a whisper — “ when escape 
will become a necessity to you — and I do not think that 
day is far off — think of me. Remember me as one who 
would gladly die to serve you. If for the moment I have 
offended you, try to pardon me. ^ ^ 

They have reached the grassy hollow beyond the wood 
that lets the house be seen. Beyond them lies a bare slope 
of lawn, and then the terraces and the drawing-room win- 
dows. The latter are all ablaze. The twinkling lights 
from them are blown here and there across the grasses by 
the trembling breeze. Within the embrasure of one win- 
dow two figures standing side by side can be distinctly 
seen. 

That one is Lord Branksmere, the other Mme. Von 
Thirsk, becomes apparent to Muriel at a glance. 

Branksmere is gazing idly upward, apparently at a frieze 
upon the wall opposite; madame (whose thoughts are busy 
upon the pale beauty of the hour), outward; she had en- 
tered the drawing-room half an hour ago, hearing Branks- 
mere was there alone, but had found him unresponsive, 
almost ungenial. At this moment she withdraws her fine 
eyes from the starry heavens, and directs them keenly at 
the moonlit lawn. As she looks a touch of triumph lights 
her face. Staines then had managed this little affair. 

“ Ahl^^ she says, in a low tone, but sharply enough to 
attract attention. Lord Branksmere turns his gaze from 
the frieze he has not been studying, to regard her question- 
ingly. He finds her glance riveted upon the world outside, 
one hand upraised as though in horror. 

“ What is it?^^ demands he, listlessly. 


LADY BEAKKSMERE. 


263 


‘‘ Nothing. She makes a movement as though to pre- 
vent his coming to the window, and even changes her posi- 
tion somewhat ostentatiously so as to get between him 
and it. 

What horrible secret does the night hold, that you 
would seek to hide from me?^^ asks he with a smile. Let 
me share it with you.-’^ He comes nearer, but laying her 
hand upon his arm she still holds him back. 

“ Warnings, I have learned, are thrown away upon 
you,^^ she says with slow meaning. ‘‘ Why, then, should 
you seek to make yourself uncomfortable?^^ 

Something in her tone enlightens him. 

“ Stand back,^-’ he says, curtly. And as she still affects 
a determination not to stir, he puts her away with one 
hand. Poor soul, his touch even thus gained is sweet to 
her! 

Going to the window, Branksmere gazes out into the 
gloom beyond, that can hardly be called darkness. Night 
IS indeed made glorious by a moonlight, brilliant, clear, 
and calm. Against the background of giant firs — in the 
very center of the lawn — two figures stand out prominent. 

‘‘You know I warned you,^^ whispers madame in his 
ear, creeping close to him and laying a hand upon his arm. 

Something in his face unnerves her and renders her tone 
tremulous. He shakes her off as though she were a viper. 

“ Leave me!^^ he says between his teeth, addressing her, 
but never removing his gaze from the two forms advancing 
toward him across the dewy lawn. 

For a moment madame regards him strangely. There 
is no rancor in her glance, there is nothing indeed but a 
sudden despair. Is this to be the end of it all? Has 
Staines, her own common sense, lied to her? Is this 
woman, this soulless creature who is incapable of appre- 
ciating him, the possessor of his heart? Until this instant 
she had disbelieved it, but now — with that expression in his 
eyes? She had dreamed strange dreams of a divorce — a 
separation — a time when she, whose whole soul is in liis 
keeping, might have stolen into his heart. But swift as a 
flash all hope has died within her. The wages for which 
she had so toiled will never now be hers. And yet, great 
Heaven! how she has loved this man; how she has admired 
the stanchness, the nobility of him; the strength that has 
enabled him to risk his chance of happiness, all for the 


S64 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


sake of saving tlie honor of another! A sense of age, of 
weakness, oppresses her as she steals slowly from the room. 

Branksmere has not noticed her departure; he is still 
gazing from the window. 


CHAPTER XXXIX, 

“ Where there is mystery it is generally supposed that there must 
also be evil. ’ ’ 

-Muriel, as she approached the Castle with Staines, had 
noticed the abrupt going of madame from the window. A 
curious smile, full of bitterness rises to her lips. 

‘‘ A precaution,^^ she mutters to herself, taken too 
late.’^ 

Staines has perhaps taken more notice of the presence 
of Lord Branksmere. 

Shall I come with you any further he asks in a care- 
ful tone, that unfortunately misrepresents itself to her. 

“ Why not?’^ she answers coldly, a touch of reckless 
defiance in her voice. If awhile ago it had occurred to her 
that it would be as well to give him a word of dismissal be- 
fore reaching the house, now she decides haughtily within 
herself that that word she will not speak. Of course, 
Staines is afraid of her, but she will show him that she 
fears no man, least of all Branksmere! 

‘‘As you will,^’ says Staines, with a rather overdone 
assumption of alacrity. 

They have gained the balcony steps by this time, Bridg- 
man has gone round the house to enter by another way, 
and Muriel mounts the steps with a certain buoyancy in her 
step, a sort of devilry of carelessness that surprises even 
herself, and that her companion is far from sharing. This 
touch of excitement clings to her until she finds herself face 
to face with Branksmere. who as she steps into the draw- 
ing-room, comes forward as if to receive her. 

But it is not she he receives after all. His eye, black 
with passion, have gone past her, to where in the semi- 
darkness the shrinking form of Staines may be seen. 
There is something about the gallant captain^ s face at this 
instant that suggests the idea that he believes liis last — or 
at all events his second last — moment has come. 

“ We have had enough of this, I think,^^ says Branks- 
mere, in a dull, terrible tone, striding forward. Muriel 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


265 


would have stopped him, but he put her aside as if she 
were an infant, and reaching Staines, seizes him by the 
throat, and lifting him in his powerful grasp, drops him 
right over the balcony. The thud of his body can be dis- 
tinctly heard as it gains the ground. 

It IS all the work of an instant. It seems to kill the 
venom in Branksmere and to do him good. Whether his 
enemy is lying writhing in pain with a broken back, or has 
escaped unhurt, is of equal value to him apparently, as his 
face is almost calm when he closes the window and turns 
to confront his wife. If he ha^ expected an outburst of 
sympathy for the sufferer on her part, he is mistaken. 

“ I fear you have hurt him,^^ she says, coldly. 

‘‘ I hope so,^^ deliberately. 

“ To have degraded him in my eyes you think a fine 
thing. You forget that at the same time you were degrad- 
ing me in his, and yours, and mine! So be it; it is your 
own doing, remember. And, after all, there was scarcely 
occasion for such a show of brutality.-’^ Her voice is per- 
fectly even; there is no vehemence, not even the slightest 
hint at passion in it. ‘‘I met him by accident as I left the 
Towers, and he very naturally accompanied me here.^^ 

“ I should fiing you after him if I for a moment doubted 
the truth of that statement,-’^ responds he, in a tone that 
proves that the demon within him, if scotched for the time 
being, still rages. 

Lady Branksmere, with a superb gesture, full of scorn, 
sweeps from the room. 

Three hours later, worn out by her angry pacing up and 
down the fioor of the empty ball-room, where she knew she 
should be free of interruption, and where she could think 
out her wild thoughts alone. Lady Branksmere slowly 
mounts the stairs that lead to her bedroom. Most of the 
lamps are extinguished, and only a dull gleam here and 
there at far distances serves to make the darkness felt. 
Down below, somewhere far away, a clock chimes the second 
hour of morning. Through the windows of the corridor 
along which she is passing a few straggling moonbeams find 
their way; pausing by one of the windows. Lady Branks- 
mere throws up the sash, and, leaning out into the night, 
gazes downward at the white pavement of the court-yard 
lying below. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


^C6 

That sad old story of that other Lady Branksmere who 
in years gone by had found her death upon those cruel 
stones, comes back to her. Poor soul! A melancholy life, 
a melancholy death, were hers. Married to the man she 
hated, forbidden to speak to or to see the man she loved. 
Beckoned by all a guilty thing because — 

A hot flush dyed her brow. She clinches her hand and 
shrinks involuntarily backward, as though to hide away 
from her very self. She had condemned that poor dead 
dame ; had looked upon her as a lost creature — a very 
Jezebel; and now! How is she — Muriel — so much better 
than her? To what words had she listened to-night? She 
— a wife! 

A shudder passes over her. In this vague mysterious 
hour when all the world seems dead, and she and her own 
heart stand here alone, what excuse dare she plead that 
judgment be not passed upon her? A cruel fear lays siege 
to her soul; a horror of what the future may hold for her, 
a sense of drifting whither she would not go. 

All at once the dull lamp that had been burning at the 
lower end of the corridor goes out, expiring with a melan- 
choly flicker that startles and unnerves her. Once again 
the vision of that unhappy woman who had been dashed to 
pieces upon the pavement beneath presents itself. An 
eerie sensation that suggests tlie near approach of some im- 
pending doom takes possession of her; she is alone in the 
gloom, with only a few ghostly moonbeams to betray the 
darkness and the unpleasant knowledge that this corridor 
is said to be haunted. With an effort to subdue her foolish 
weakness, she is about to proceed on her way when a sound 
comes to her from the dowagePs apartments beyond that 
freezes the blood in her veins. 

It is the same awful cry that she had heard once before. 
A long, low creeping cry, replete with anguish, and scarce- 
ly human. Not the wail of an old woman. Even at this 
terrible moment Lady Branksmere wonders inw^ardly how' 
she could ever have thought it had fallen from the do wa- 
ger ^s lips. It is clear, strong, piercing: but unearthly! 

Her breath stops short. She had been toying with a 
bracelet on her way up the stairs, and now it falls from her 
nerveless grasp and rolls along the polished floor with a 
little rasping noise. 

To her heated imagination it seems as though this rolling 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 


267 

will never cease. A silence as terrible as the cry itself had 
followed upon it; as suddenly as it rose it had died. Had 
a cloth been laid upon the screaming lips, or a heavy door 
closed to deaden the sound? 

Again the sacred stillness of the night is desecrated, 
again an appalling sound rings through the corridor. But 
now the wail has turned to shrieking laughter, to a mirth 
that makes the blood grow cold, and. compels oner’s very 
heart to stand still. Is there madness in it? 

Muriel, half wild with terror, rushes to her room, and 
closing the door with trembling fingers that will scarcely 
obey her meaning, locks it firmly. Great Heaven! what 
mystery dwells within this dreadful house! Her face is 
bloodless; her hands are cold; she is shivering in every 
limb. Must she dwell, forever, then, in terror? A long- 
ing to escape gives her the strength to walk wildly up and 
down her room, as some poor animal might do within its 
detested cage. It is too late to return to the Towers; 
already it is two hours after midnight, and to free one^s 
self from this terrible atmosphere for only a few hours, of 
what avail is it? But to get away forever — ^forever — for- 
ever! 

She is still trembling with excitement; she has fallen 
into a chair, and her hands are hanging loosely by her 
sides. Her breath is coming in short fitful gasps. Yes; 
to go forever. To leave all this, and the anger, and the 
impotent protesting behind her! What was it that Staines 
had said? 

She grows even whiter, and leans back heavily in her 
chair. Yes, she remembers! Never had his wooing been 
so impassioned even in the old.davs. It had not lain so 
much in speech, as in voice and eyes; and yet — What is it? 
She pushes back the hair from her hot forehead, and 
springing to her feet gazes at herself intently in the huge 
mirror let into the wall that reaches from floor to ceiling! 
the white, set face! but where is the love that should shine, 
though it be guilty? What has come to her? Has she, 
indeed, lost all desire for everything earthly or heavenly? 
Can she no longer love or hate? Is her soul dead within 
her? 

“ My face is foul with weeping, 

And on my eyelids is the shadow of death 
Mine eye also is dim by reason of sorrow.” 


268 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


But to go with him! To quit this cruel life for one 
where — She shudders violently, and presses her palms 
together. Yet surely no other life could be more cruel! 
And there would be love. That he loves her seems beyond 
all doubt. She would no longer have to enact the role of 
the neglected, forsaken wife, the woman cast aside and 
abandoned. She lifts her hand to wipe the moisture from 
her brow! To go — to leave it all. To wake in some 
other clime free from the insulting chains that so long have 
galled her! To wake — a dishonored woman! A false wife! 
A meretricious thing with garments defiled, from whom all 
other women, good and happy, will forever shrink with 
righteous disdain. Sweet Heaven! NO! 

She puts up her hand as if to ward from her some in- 
tolerable thought. The drops rise and cling to her fore- 
head. Her pulse deadens. She steps forward. She feels 
that she is falling — ^falling — ! 

Dropping upon her knees, she clasps her forehead close. 

A new and contrite heart, for this she prays. 

And with prayer come peace and a desire for good. She 
rises presently, with the longing for repentance strong upon 
her: to find her husband, to confess all to him, to ask from 
him a confession in return (a confession she swears to her- 
self she will condone, whatever it may be, if given to her 
openly and honestly), is her newborn desire. Life has for- 
ever lost its sweetness for her. Hope! Bright Vanadis, 
that most desirable of all the goddesses of Olympus, has 
given her up long since; but still some poor return may be 
hers. 

To wait for the morning with all these wild, grievous 
thoughts surging within her seems impossible. She must 
go now. If asleep she can wake him. She 7yiust go. 

She steals to the door, opens it, and in spite of her fear 
creeps along it toward her husband ^s room. Now, as she 
nears the hanging curtains that cut off the haunted rooms 
inhabited by Mme. von Thirsk from the rest of the house, 
she trembles visibly and pauses. Can she pass them? 

Even as she hesitates the heavy curtain is swung aside 
and into the moonlight that now has grown broad and full 
— and straight from madame’s apartments emerge the fig- 
ures of Thekla von Thirsk and — Lord Branksmere! 

Muriel, putting out both her hands behind her, steals 
backward, and coming softly against a wall, leans against 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 269 

it thankfully, and with the faintness of death upon her, 
waits for what may come. 

Madame’ s face is strangely pale and careworn. She 
looks as one who has just undergone a heavy trial. Her 
eyes are still wide and wet with the traces of bitter tears 
just shed. She is speaking, and the words are falling from 
her hurriedly, as from one who is filled with grief. 

‘‘ The past is over and done,” she is saying, ‘‘ and why 
should I now be betrayed? I have your oath, Branksmere 
— your oath — remember that.” She is deeply agitated. 

‘‘If you will keep me to it,” replies he, moodily, his 
eyes fixed upon the ground. 

“ I do hold you.” Her voice has grown strong again. 

It is but a small tiling to you, perhaps, but to me it 
means honor, all! Have you forgotten everything that 
you thus speak lightly of betrayal? Does it not concern 
you as much as me?” 

“As much, indeed.” His voice was low, and as he 
speaks a sigh escapes him. 

“ Ah! you still acknowledge that. The love then that 
belonged to those old days is not yet slain? That is well. 
Why should the work of years be undone to gratify the 
cold fancy of an unloving girl?” 

An inexplicable change darkens Branksmere’ s face. 

“ She has reason to be cold,” he says, with a sort of sub- 
dued passion. “ This secrecy that she so resents, this mel- 
ancholy tie that binds us — you and me — all tend to render 
her unloving.” 

“ Again you waver,” murmurs madame, moving closer 
to him. 

“No.” 

“You will be stanch?” She lays her hand upon his 
arm, and her voice takes a low, seductive tone. “ You 
will be true ? It means life to me, Branksmere, and you 
owe me much. You have sworn to me already; but I 
would have you say again that you will never be false to 
your old allegiance.” 

“ I shall not be false.” 

“ The old love, then, still lives?” 

“ It lives — always.” 

“ Oh, Branksmere!” cries madame, in a low voice that 
to the silent listener seems filled with passion. 

Light and swift as a shadow Muriel moves away from 


m 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


them, back to the room she has just quitted. All the soft 
penitence is gone from her face. Her mouth is stern. Her 
eyes are all ablaze with a fire that hate has lit. She does 
not kneel this time. No prayer rises to her lips. She 
flings wide the casement, as though athirst for air, and as 
the dawn comes slowly up, and the first cold breath of 
morn salutes her brow, her final resolve is formed. 


CHAPTER XL. 

“ He is my bane; I can not bear him. 

One heaven and earth can never hold us both.” 

‘‘ It^s the very deuce of a thing, says Mr. Daryl, rue- 
fullv. 

‘^Well, iPs just that,^^ acquiesces his wife, with the ut- 
most agreeability. “ But why she canT tug on with that 
poor Branksmere is a puzzle to me. 

‘‘ You know why she doesnT,^^ put in Dick, with a 
frown. “ She has explained it to you clearly enough, and 
you know also that that evening he was here with her he 
failed to explain anything. 

Still I believe there is some mistake somewhere. There 
is a touch of strength about Branksmere '’s face that pre- 
cludes the idea of falseness. 

‘‘ Well, however it goes, iPs the dickens of a nuisance,^^ 
says Billy again, running his fingers with vague irritability 
through his hair. It is close on eleven o^ clock, and the 
sweetness and light that may be derived from sound slum- 
ber commend themselves to him. “Something ought to 
be done, I suppose, eh?'^ His tone is deplorably wanting 
in vigor. There is even a suspicious ring in it that might 
lead the hearers to suspect him of being only ambitious of 
doing nothing! 

“ Certainly, and at once,^^ replies Dick, severely. 

“Oh! not at once,^^ remonstrates Meg, weakly. “ One 
should think. 

“No, certainly not at once.^^ Billy grasps at this eager- 
ly. “ And to think, to think hard, is in my opinion 
essential. 

“ I doiiH agree with you: not a moment should be lost,^^ 
persists Dick, the implacable. “He is treating her bar- 
barously, and she is our sister. If we do not stand to her. 


LADY BRAl^KSMERE. 271 

who will? You are the eldest, Billy. If I were you I 
should make a move/^ 

‘‘ There you are utterly out of it/^ returned Billy, de- 
jectedly. “ If such a remarkable event could occur that 
you should become we, I beg to assure you you wouldn^t 
stir a peg. To make a move is the very last thing in the 
world I want to do, unless it be toward bed. You may 
think, my good boy, that it is a simple thing to walk up to 
a fellow who has the misfortune to be one's brother-in-law, 
and who up to this has seemed to you to be a very decent 
sort of fellow, and tell him in blank verse that he is a — 
Yes, yes, my dear girl, of course^ one should never go to 
extremes in one's language, that I know; and after all I 
didn't say it, did I?" 

Well, I guess you did what you could for it," says Mrs. 
Billy. 

‘‘ After all, it seems a pity that Muriel married poor 
George," murmurs Angelica, dreamily. “ Perhaps it 
would have all turned out better if she had married her 
first love. Captain Staines." 

‘‘Oh! no!" The words break from Mrs. Billy's lips as 
if against her will. Her voice is full of horror, and she 
puts out one hand impulsively, as though to ward off some 
danger. Every one looks a little surprised; her husband 
in a sleepy, half-amused fashion. 

“ Why, what has that blonde Apollo done to you?" he 
asks, lazily, “ that you should break into such violent lan- 
guage. Your behavior is far worse than mine was — going 
to he — a few moments ago." 

Mrs. Billy's laugh is perfectly natural as she turns to 
him. 

“ Don't like his face," she says, “ I hate those starved- 
looking men. One never can be sure, of course, but I 
don't think she would have been happy with him." 

“ Happier than with a man who has so grossly insulted 
her," returns Dick, gloomily. 

“ As to that, Muriel was always fanciful. We ourselves 
used to find her a little difficult," puts in Peter. “ And 
Branksmere certainly was awfully in love with her when 
they were married, whatever he may be now. He insisted 
upon making the most splendid settlements " — turning to 
Mrs. Daryl — “and made her a present of £20,000 upon 
their wedding-day, so that she might feel herself independ- 


272 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


ent of him. Of course, if that story about Madame von 
Thirsk is true, he is the greatest scoundrel I have heard of. 
But is it? She is such a nice little woman,^"’ says Peter^ 
sentimentally, to whom all nice little women are dear. 

‘‘ I^’m sure I don^t see how it is all to end,^^ says Mar- 
gery, despairingly. ‘‘ As for madame, though I think she 
is like a cat, still I think she is, in some ways, a good soul,, 
and devoted to that dreadful old mummy upstairs. That 
is why Branksmere is so attached to her, though Muriel 
refuses to see it. 


Things grow worse between them every day.^^ 

“ And thaPs a fact,^^ says Tommy Paulyn, sauntering in 
from the shrubberies, where he has been amusing himself 
with the inevitable cigarette, and a pea-shooter meant for 
the diversion of any prowling cat. “ Do 1 give it the cor- 
rect twang, Mrs. Billy? — to. see those two glowering at each 
other is enough to upset the nerves of any one as delicate 
as I am. It^s a mistake, too,^^ continues Tommy, with a 
languishing air. ‘‘ It gives us, the outsiders, a distaste 
for matrimony. 

“ I donT see where the mistake comes in there, says 
Angelica, scornfully. 

DonT you? How dense you grow, Angelica. CanT 
you see that I, as a Lord of the Creation, being disheartened 
by such goings on, and afraid to cast myself at the feet of 
— let me say, for example — you, an excellent chance is lost 
to the girls of England forever?-’^ 

‘‘ Pshaw says the third Miss Daryl. 

By all means, old girl. Anything you wish,^^ responds 
Mr. Paulyn, amiably. ‘‘ Your remarks, if short, are 
always to the point. I didiPt quite catch the last, but I 
feel it was worthy of you. No affectation about yoilr 
style; no pretense at an unhealthy elegance. Indeed, 
there is an absence of starch about you generally that is 
very refreshing."’^ 

‘‘ If you must talk so much, it is a pity you can’t do it 
in decent English.” 

‘‘ Do you mean to insinuate that my English is twdecent? 
Oh! fy, Angelica; you hurt me very much; I, who have 
always so prided myself upon my — You ask my opinion, 
Mrs. Billy? Oh! ah! yes, to be sure. It is exactly the 
same as yours, I assure you. ” 


LADY BRANKSMEKE. 


27a, 

‘‘ Tommy! You have not been listening/^ declares Mr. 
0;i yi, sternly. “ DonT mind him, Willie/-’ to his wife. 

“ I give you my word. I really, you know, wouldnT for 
aiiytbing — begins Tommy, mumbling hopelessly, and 
^qncezing energetically a bunch of leaves he has brought 
in-doors with him. 

" It doesn-’t matter at all. The thing now is to know 
what is to be done with Muriel, I^’m afraid she imagines 
a good deal. 

“ What she wants, declares Mr. Daiyl, with the air of a 
discoverer, “ is a shock! A rattling good shock! She is 
too one-sided an observer, too narrow, too self-conscious; 
and a shock of some sort would rouse her from her absurd 
fancies and bring her to her senses.-’^ 

“ A shock, they sav, is good for most people/^ answers 
his wife doubtfully; but then who is to administer it?’^ 

“ Can I be of any use?^^ asks Mr. Paulyn earnestly, and, 
it must be allowed, with the very purest purpose — if for 
this time only. As he speaks he extends his arm and flings 
into the fire (the night is cold) the leaves he holds. They 
are laurel leaves and at once go off with a resounding suc- 
cession of sharp bangs that would have put a small artillery 
corps to shame. As if with one consent they all jump. 
Margery, indeed, gives way to a faint shriek. The untime- 
ly interruption has occurred at a most unhappy moment, 
and rouses angry feelings in their breasts. Indeed, I 
hardly say that every one is extremely indignant. 

“ Is that what you call a shock? If you canT help 
Thomas, in our misery, at least have the goodness to r. - 
frain from your eternal practical jokes, says Marge, y, 
sternly. 

Mr. Daryl, whom time and circumstance should i-:i 
sobered, has, I regret to say, subsided into uncontrollable 
laughter and an easy-chair, behind a convenient screen. 
He is, therefore, unequal to the occasion. 

“ It wasn^t a joke,^^ protests the Hon. Tommy. “ At 
least, not on my part. Who^d have thought a few inno- 
cent-looking, green, very green, leaves, would have made 
sucharow?^^ 

Here another of them that had up to this escaped the 
blaze is now caught by it and explodes noisily. 

“ Now, Tommy, there! You Ye at it again. If nobody 
else speaks to you about it, I will, cries Angelica, wrath- 


274 L/VDY RRAIn-KSMEKE. 

fully, who is plainly under' the impression that up to tivis 
every one else had been absurdly mild about it. 

“Do you mean to say that my fault demands 
Tommy, in a highly indignant tone. “ Why didnT it ; 
off at first, I^d like to know, instead of meanly dodging 
about so as to get me into deeper disgrace? You saw it 
all, Mrs. Billy, appealing to her hopefully, as most people 
would; “ and you will admit that that last confounded 
thing went off by itself. Eh! now. DidnT it?^^ 

But Mrs. Billy had disappeared behind her handkerchief. 
“ There, now, youWe made her cry. I hope you are satis- 
fied noiu” says Angelica vindictively. “ You have sim- 
ply frightened her out of her life. And at such a time, 
too,'’"’ regarding him reproachfully, “ to play jokes 

“ It ivasn^t a joke, I tell you!^^ almost roars the dismayed 
Tommy. “ It’s no joke at all! And I never knew those 
vile leaves were surcharged with gunpowder, or I wouldn’t 
have touched ’em. I say, Mrs. Billy, don’t go on like that, 
you know. Eh? Eh? I’m real sorry, you know!” 

A little gasp escapes Mrs. Billy; she lets the handker- 
chief fall and gives way to wild merriment. 

“ It was so opportune, so deliciously d propos^^^ she ex- 
claims. “ But one shouldn’t laugh when one has so seri- 
ous a subject on hand,” growing grave again. “ Poor 
Muriel! I am so grieved about her.” 

all comes of marrying a man without loving him,” 
say. .viargery. 

“ And I don’t believe she cared a brass farthing for 
PT’onksmere,” supplements Peter. 

, “ A^ Il,” declares Mr. Daryl, who has deserted the arm- 

'■chp''* i.d is once again as solemn as anyone can desire and 
cuusiuerably more drowsy, “ if people will commit that 
sort of moral suicide, they must expect a disastrous result. 
What will you have?” He shrugs his shoulders as though 
in contempt of that sort of peojDle. 

“A brandy and soda, thanks,” says Mr. Paulyn, ab- 
stractedly, who has mistaken the meaning of the last re- 
mark and the tone of the conversation generally. Every- 
one laughs except Mr. Daiyl, who remains preternaturally 
grave, and regards the Hon. Tommy with a countenance 
expressive of the deepest admiration. 

‘ Thomas, thou hast said it!” he remarks at last. 
“This parliament,” addressing his wife, “is prorogued 


LADY BRAXKSMERE. 


275 


indefinitely. May the gods grant our next meeting may be 
a merrier one! Come with me, ‘ true Thomas/ to the bill- 
iard-room, where probably that gracious mixture of which 
you spoke is awaiting us. Peter — Dick, be in attendance.'’^ 
They all disappear. The boys with Billy, Angelica to 
her bed. Margery, going up to Mrs. Billy, lays her hands 
upon her shoulders. 

What do you know of Captain Staines?^ ^ she asks 
slowly. 

“ Not much,^^ returns Mrs. Daryl, returning her gaze in 
full. ‘‘ And yet a great deal. 

You have met him before? In some other part of your 
life? Ah! I could see it. You know of — 

Nothing to his good!^'’ calmly. ‘‘ Yes, I knew him— 
in the old days.'’^ 

“ You — ^you loved him?^^ 

‘‘ Certainly not,” with healthy emphasis, 

“ He loved you?^^ 

Mrs. Billy smiles. 

‘‘ My dea?' girl. You who know the man, to ask such 3. 
question! Could he love anything beyond himself and his 
own interests?^ ^ 

“ See here,’’’’ says Margery, growing pale, but not re- 
moving her earnest gaze from the face before her, nor her 
grasp from her shoulders. You have kept secret your 
knowledge of him all this time. Why?” 

‘‘ Secret? Does one mention every casual acquaintance?'’^ 
‘‘ He was no casual acquaintance. Some motive kept 
'lent. Speak, Willie! Tell me what you know of 



Do you, then, suspect me of an intrigue with hini?’^ 
asks the other gravely. 

‘‘ That question is unworthy of you! No. I ask for — 
she draws her breath sharply, and her lips grow white— 
Muriel '’s sake! If you know anything that might — 
The idea is cruel, mean, but I would do anything to break 
the bond of affected friendship that exists between them. 
Willie, if you know anything to his disadvantage, say it. 
Do not hesitate; save her at all risks! What is be to 
that you should refrain from speech that may h,.';> to ':l,.ar 
her eyes. Yesterday I met them again, she and that bad 
man, down in the little dell we used to call ‘ Love/s ItC* 
treat, ^ because he and she used to walk there every da^y 


276 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 


when we thought she meant to marry him. Oh, if one 
only knew of something that would turn her heart against 
him. 

“I donH believe she in the least cares for him/ ^ says 
Mrs. Daryl, looking at the ground. 

“ And yet — 

“ And yet to escape her present life she may commit any 
folly. I understand her as well as you do. You would 
hear what I know of Staines? Hear it, then. He was 
obliged to leave Brussels whilst I was there in rather an un- 
comfortable hurry. They had thrown him out of the club 
window the night before because of his being a little too 
clever about his cards. 

‘‘ That is very bad,^^ said Margery. But there is 
something more. All that is outside your oim experience 
of him. And I would have that!’' 

‘‘Would you?” 

Mrs. Billy regards her intently. 

“ It is, as I told you, a trivial alfair — an every-day oc- 
currence, probably,” with a rather bitter intonation, 

hardly worth so much reticence on my part. As you 
are so persistent, listen then. Once Captain Staines did 
me the honor to ask me to run away with him. To give 
up name and fame for him! To accept for him! I 

was only a poor dependent then, to whom an insult might 
safely be offered. The general and his money were not 
thought of. It was really good-natured to ask a poor, over- 
worked, tired, miserable, little girl to leave her life of 
slavery for — Pshaw!” cries Mrs. Billy, flinging up her 
head. “ Why should I at this hour feel so keenly the treat- 
ment of a man so utterly base, so unworthy of any 
thought?” 

“ My poor heart!” says Margery, witli deepest com- 
miseration and self-reproach. “ I should not have pressed 
the question.” She lifts Mrs. Daryl’s hands and kisses 
thrill ; oftly one after the other. Then, “ Does Billy 
know 

“ How could I tell him? No I A thousand times, no! 

ii:il disgrace; a horror! It was such a shameful 
t; cries Mrs. Billy, and then all at once her self-pos- 
deserts her, and she bursts into a storm of tears. 

Oii! that I could requite that man,” she whispers sob- 

iglr through her set teeth, “ that I could find myself 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


277 


once face to face with him — the necessity to speak the truth 
full upon me, and the knowledge that my betrayal would 
be Ms ruin. 

Who would have thought that all this passion was in the 
del) 07 inaire little creature now encircled by Margery ^s 
arms? Margery, to whom she clings, because some innate 
knowledge satisfies her that the girl, on just such another 
occasion, would feel as she does — ^just so true a friend, just 
so true an enemy, just as revengeful. 

Her tears are dried as quickly as they fell. She shakes 
back her pretty hair, and looks up at Margery. A heav}^ 
sigh escapes her. 

‘‘There! I^m glad Fve told some one,^^ she says, 
“though I just wish it had been Billy, not you. How- 
ever, I shall tell him some day, when Staines is well out of 
the way. That will be soon.^^ 

IMargery shudders; some inward fear renders her for the 
moment cold. 

“ Ho, my dear, nothing of that sort. Hot while I’m 
here. ITl prevent it all I can,” says Mrs. Billy. “ Don’t 
make yourself uncomfortable before you must.” 

“ If Muriel only knew—” 

“ She shall know all in good time. I shall so far sacri- 
fice myself, and at the same time satisfy my honor. And 
now to bed. Keep my secret, Meg, until — ” 

“ Forever,” says Meg. 

Half an hour later, Mr. Daryl having effected his escape 
from the other occupants of the billiard-room, enters his 
own apartment to find his wife awaiting him, standing by 
the window. As she turns to receive him, there is no trace 
of her late emotion about her. Her face is as bright as 
ever, the customary smile with which she always greets 
him as sweet. 

“ Life is fatiguing,” says Mr* Daryl, sinking, with a 
sleepy sigh, into the nearest lounging-chair; “ especially 
the part of it that has to do with one’s sisters. Muriel will 
turn me gray even before you do, and Margery is nearly as 
bad. She turns up her nose of every fellow she meets; 
and, as for Bellew, she is playing old Harry with him. ” 

“ I could tell you something about him,” returns his 
wife, mysteriously. “ But I can’t; you’d be sure to tell it 
again, and — Ho, I can’t, indeed. I’ve promised.” 


27 


LADY BRANK&MERE. 


‘‘ Oh, go on!^^ says Mr. Daryl, with a criminal disregard 
for the sacredness of oner’s word. 

Well,^^ relenting, eagerly relenting, “ you are sure 
you will — ” 

Positive. 

“ Never?’" 

‘‘ Never!’" 

“ Then I must tell you that last night, as I came sud- 
denly round the large myrtle in the corner of the garden, I 
found Margery there with Bellew, and he had his arm 
round her waist, and she didn’t seem in the least annoyed. 
She seemed, indeed, rather — or — comfortable, if anything. 
She made me promise not to mention it, however, and I 
did, faithfully. ” 

So you did— faithfully!” 

‘‘ Well, don’t you think that means something?” 

‘‘No, I don’t. I have long ceased to place my faith in 
such paltry evidence as that. To my certain knowledge 
Curzon has had his arm round her waist otf and on for the 
last two years without the faintest result. For my own part 
I begin to think poorly of Bellew. If I were to have my 
arm round a girl’s waist for the five-hundredth part of that 
time, I should — ” 

“ Billy! I wonder you aren’t ashamed to speak to me 
in that way. ” 

“ Why, my dear? Would you prefer my addressing that 
remark to somebody else? I can’t remember that in the 
old days you saw any very great harm in having my arm 
round your — ” 

“We were talking of Margery,” interrupts she, severe- 
ly. “ Let us keep to some respectable subject.” 

‘ ‘ By all means. I should hate to wander into the j^aths 
of vice. As to Margery, perhaps she means to marry 
Tommy. ” 

“ Tommy? Nonsense! Who would marry Tommy? 
He is just one of the nicest people I know, but as to mar- 
riage! why, he isn’t in it at all. I could almost find it in 
my heart to love him; but to go to the altar with him, that 
is a different thing. ” 

“ Mrs. Daryl, permit me to say that I object to that 
speech,” puts in Billy, in a tone descriptive of marital 
sternness struggling with sleep. 

“ I am alluding to Margery,” vaguely. “ The idea of 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


279 


your thinking she would accept Tommy. Who would 
marry such an inconsequent person! I know I wouldnT.^^ 
“ Couldn^t!^^ murmurs Mr. Daryl, drowsily. He has 
managed by this time to get out of his coat, no more, and 
is now plainly on the verge of a refreshing slumber. A 
gentle somnolence has caught him. To even a careless ob- 
server it might occur that he has made up his mind to 
spend the remainder of the night in the arm-chair, his 
shirt, waistcoat, and — the rest of it. Bigamy is not tol- 
erated in this slow old country. 

‘‘A good thing, too,^^ declares Mrs. Billy, with warmth. 
‘‘ What is your mind running on now? A harem 

Oh, no, my love! Oh, fy!^^ breathes Mr. Daryl, with 
a gleam of consciousness. There is, however, a frivolity 
about his horror that strikes upon his wife^s ear. 

“ There are certain feelings' about you. Bilk', that ought 
to be corrected,^^ she is beginning, with emphasis, when a 
sound comes to her that puts to flight all sensations save 
that of wrath. It is a mild, harmonious snore that breaks 
from Mr. DaryFs Roman nose, with an honest heartiness 
that admits of no misconception. 

“ I do believe you are asleep!'’^ cries his wife, with ac- 
centuated indignation. She draws closer to him to make 
sure of the hateful fact, and as she does so a ready venge- 
ance holds out its arms to her. Billyhs barber had inad- 
vertently forgotten to clip off one small lock just behind 
his ear. This had been to Billyhs wife a sore grievance for 
a week past; now it is a boon! She seizes upon it, she 
draws it briskly upward. With a wild shriek Mr. Daryl is 
brought back to every-day life, and beats a retreat to his 
dressing-room. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Where no hope is left, is left no fear.’* 

* * * * * 

“ Alas! I lose myself. 

'Tis pathless, dark, and barren all to me.” 

* * * * * 

Muriel^ s fatal resolution once formed, she hastens the 
completion of it. With a soul full of returning grace, she 
had re-entered the corridor that night; with a soul void of 
all belief and hope she left it. When next Staines met her 


^80 


LADY BKAKKSMERE. 


— and she actually laid plain the way for him — she received 
his half- veiled aspirations in so friendly a spirit that he 
was emboldened to place before her the plans he had for so 
long framed. She acquiesced in all of them; but so coldly, 
so indifferently, that he was both puzzled and piqued by 
her manner. 

To him, departure from this part of the world is imper- 
ative; steeped to his very eyes in debt, both here and in 
town, nothing is left him but an immediate and secret dis- 
appearance from the land of his duns. To live abroad on 
that thousand a year so considerately bestowed upon Lady 
Branksmere by her husband, is the little game that for 
some time has presented itself to him as being worthy of 
notice. The thought of leaving England with Lady Branks- 
mere (who is the most desirable woman in the world in his 
eyes), and this sum, seems good in his eyes, and her yield- 
ing, however coldly accorded, a success. 

It is a week later, and a cold, dull evening, rain- washed 
and dreary. “A common grayness silvers everything. 

No sight of moon is possible, and through all the air there 
is a threatening of thunder. The clouds hang low, and 
out of them the mountains loom, gloomy and grand. Kis- 
ing through the sullen mist, their peaks soar upward like 
spires, as if seeking for freedom. Between them the sky 
shines red as fire. An appalling fire! weiid and horrible, 
that clings to one^s memory as though it were a part of 
Banters Inferno. 

And now the rain comes tujnbling down; it descends in 
torrents; the whole face of the earth is made green by it. 

“ The dikes are filled, and with a roaring sound. 

The rising rivers flood the nether ground.” j 

Hardly heeding the extraordinary blackness of the grow- j 
ing night, Lady Branksmere, with a traveling-cloak thrown ' 
across her arm, turns the handle of her husband^ s private 
room and enters it, to find him seated at a table at the 
other end, 

‘‘It is a mistake to waste words in explanation,-’^ she 
says. “ Hear me once for all. I leave this house to- 
night, forever. ” 

“Ah!^^ says Branksmere. He rises to his feet and 
pushes his papers slowly from him. J ust so much time it 
takes him to recover himself. “ And with whom?^^ ho 
asks, looking directly at her. His tone is calm. 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


281 


‘‘ Captain Staines/^ returns she, as calmly. If she had 
expected to triumph in his burst of rage on hearing this 
answer she is disappointed; Bran ksmere^s face remains im- 
passive. 

May I ask the reason of this sudden determination?^^ 
he asks, presently. 

‘‘I think — coldly — you hardly need. I have no 
time to waste. 

“ In such mad haste to be gone? Even so, I must press 
you for an answer, if only that I may be able to give it to 
my questioners hereafter.^^ 

Say that the atmosphere of the place proved too much 
for me. I have no appetite for the mysterious, and the 
sounds which reach one^s ear at midnight in this house are 
far from reassuring. She looks at him keenly as she 
fires this shaft, but if a change passes over his face it is so 
fleeting that she scarcely catches it. “ Say I am unreason- 
able — -fanciful if you will — anything/^ slowly, ‘‘ but the 
truth! That is too shameful! Say — I don^t care what 
you say,^^ she ends abruptly. 

‘‘ I can readily believe it. A woman bent on taking 
such a step as yours would naturally be indifferent to pub- 
lic opinion. And so this is to be the end of it?^^ 

“ I hope so. So far as you and I are concerned. 

Your chief desire is to escape from me?^^ 

Audi— her 

Pshaw! let us keep to sense. Your old affection for 
this man has induced you to leave me? I would at least 
hear you say so. 

That you might feel your own conscience the lighter? 
Cease from taunts, Branksmere, and from hypocrisy, too. 
You know you will be as glad to be rid of -me as I shall be 
to know that I have looked my last on you!^^ The wild 
bitterness of her tone renders him silent. “ A truce to 
passion, she cries, presently, with a great impatience, “I 
leave you because life here is no longer bearable. 

You leave me to join your lover. Is that so?^^ 

A slow smile curls her lip. ‘‘If it will make you any 
the happier, leave it so.^^ 

“ If that were not the case surely matters might have 
been more respectably arranged,^^ returns he with a shrug. 

Did it never suggest itself to you that you might have 


^82 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


separated yourself from me in a more decent fashion? You 
might have gone alone/^ 

“ It is too late now for suggestions/^ Her tone is dull, 
and in a weary way she taps the ends of her taper fingers 
against the table near her. ‘‘ I have given him my prom- 
ise. 

Once you made me a promise He pauses here, but 
her tired face showing no sign of relenting, he refuses to 
continue his subject. ‘‘ Did it never strike you that I 
might prevent this mad act of yours?’ ^ 

And serve me as that ancient dame of your house was 
served, who died rather than live a prisoner? Well,” with 
a scornful glance, “ even though you should treat me so, 
I should not die; do not, ” with a little contemptuous laugh, 

hope for that. I should only learn to wait, and then all 
things would come to me. But I am safe from you. To 
seek to detain me is the last thing that would enter into 
your head. ” 

The very last. You speak truly there.” 

“ At last you acknowledge something. Why not ac- 
knowledge all?” asks she, lifting to his a face that is pas- 
sion-pale. 'Y.oviX tendresse for madame — 

I almost wish I could. Then, at least, there might be 
a chance of gaining absolution; but as it stands, you see,” 
coldly, there is nothing to confess.” 

“You lie to the last,” she says. “And yet even to 
gain your wife, you refuse to let her go.” 

“ That would not have gained me my wife. And yet — ” 
He looks at her strangely with a face grown suddenly white. 
“ If I were now to prove false to my friendship and grati- 
tude to my grandmother’s faithful friend — ’ ’ 

“ The time is past for all that,” interrupts she steadily. 
“ You would now do for the sake of your own good name 
what you would not do for me. I thank you; but I 
will not accept the sacrifice. It is,” bitterly, “ too great. 

“ What charges do you bring against me?” 

“ Many and many a one.” 

“ And yet I hold myself blameless.” 

‘ ‘ Have a care, Branksmere ! The world may be cheated 
by you, but I can not.” 

“You give the world too much credit, it seems to me. 
You pay it too rich a compliment. Its innocence is hardly 
to be relied upon. You think yourself far cleverer than 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 283 

it, yet the world, you should remember, has a thousand 
eyes — ^you but two. Yet it has not condemned me."^^ 

‘‘It is my privilege, as a wife,"'^ says she, slowly, “ to 
know you more intimately than most. 

“ A wife! I have no wife!^^ There is a world of con- 
temptuous anger in his voice. His eyes flash; for the mo- 
ment he looks as though he could willingly annihilate her. 
“ My accusation!^"' he demands in a tone that admits of no 
refusal. 

“ That woman, ^ cries she, throwing wide her arms, and 
drawing up her beautiful figure to its full height. “ Ho 
you deem me a fool, or blind? She is your friend, not I. 
She has rooms to which I have no access — I — in my own 
house ! but where you are made welcome. ” 

“ If you must have an answer again to that, I swear to 
you I never saw her rooms in my life. ^ ^ 

“ You swear that!^^ With her eyes still fixed on his, 
she recoils from him a step or two, as if in abhorrence. 
“You swear it!'^ she says. 

“ From my soul I do. Nay, hear me. That night — 
you saw me in. the corridor with — her — and — ” 

“ How do you know that?'^ 

“ By this.^^ Opening a drawer he holds out to her the 
bracelet she had dropped there when her terror at that un- 
earthly scream had numbed her nerves. “ You accuse me 
of the worst; but if you had only known why— 

“The time is over for explanations,^' exclaims she, 
hastily, waving aside his words hy a gesture of the hand. 

Silence falls between them after this, a lengthened si- 
lence, broken at last by him. 

“ When do you go?" asks he, abruptly- 

“ Now." 

“ Staines is in waiting?" 

“ Yes." 

“ I wonder you are not afraid of my murdering him," 
says he, casually, as it were, glancing at her with a half- 
indifferent air. 

“ Pas si bete/^ returns she, with an insolent lifting 
of her shoulders. “ You know your own good better than 
that." 

“ You have probably made others aware of this move?" 
As Branksmere asks this question he regards her keenly. 

“ No. You alone know of it." 


284 


LADY BRANKSMEKE. 


“ It was extremely kind of you to give me such timely 
warning. It takes away a good deal from the awkward- 
ness of a vulgar discovery, I am sincerely obliged to you/-’ 
he says. “ And^ now, one other word before we part. Do 
you think you will be happy with this — Staines?’-’ He 
asked this question in his coldest and most sneering man- 
ner, as though propounding an ordinary question. 

‘‘ I don’t know. Is there such a thing as happiness?” 
asks she in turn, lifting to his her great, somber, mournful 
eyes. ‘‘ At least he loves me. I shall have love — the one 
thing hitherto denied me.-” 

A curious gleam comes into Branksmere’s eyes. Dor a 
moment he looks as though some impassioned word must 
pass his lips, but as suddenly as the longing came it went. 
He subdues himself, and, as if struck by the absurdity of 
the impulse he had killed, he breaks into a low, discordant 
laugh — a laugh short-lived, but one so strange, that she, 
half startled, looks at him. 

“You are merry, sir,” she says, gravely. 

“ Why should I not be? If nothing else, at least grant 
me a sense of humor. Surely the situation is full of it! It 
is perhaps the first time on record that madame has had 
the courtesy to inform monsieur of her intention to dis- 
honor him.” 

“ You are wrong,” indifferently. “ I know of at least 
one similar case. I knew the woman who so acted.” 

“You hneio her?” There is a cruelty in the emphasis 
used. ’Muriel’s lips whiten. 

“ She passed out of my old life,” she answers, coldly. 

“ And into your new one! In all human probability 
you will meet her again shortly. I congratulate you on 
your friends,” with a low bow. 

“ And I, you on yours,” meaningly. 

“ This last friend, to whom we are indebted for the 
evening conversation. You are aware, perhaps, that he is 
penniless?” 

“ I haven’t heard it,” listlessly. “ But even if it is true 
it will not distress me. I would welcome poverty — any- 
thing — to escape the life I am now leading. ” 

“ You propose leading another where money will be no 
object, or at least where very little will suffice? May I ask 
if you intend living with — your friend — on your jointure?’^ 

“ Certainly not,’^ flushing hotly. “ That I formally re- 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


285 


sign now, at once, and forever. And I think, my lord,'’^ 
drawing up her figure with a superb gesture of injured 
pride, you will do me the justice to remember that up 
to this I have spent just so little of it as helped me to clothe 
myself, as the mistress of your house should be clothed. I 
used your money, not for my own good, but for yours. 

“ Does — ^your friend — know you are determined to accept 
nothing at my hands for the future?^^ 

“ No.^^ 

‘‘You have not mentioned the subject to him?^^ 

“ No. There was no necessity. " 

“ Ah!^^ says Branksmere, “ I think, however, I would 
have mentioned it had I been you!^^ An unpleasant smile 
darkens his face. “ The money is yours, remember,^-’ he 
says, presently. “ I have no smallest claim to it. If you 
decline to use it, it will in course of time lapse to the 
crown. 

“ That doesiiH concern me; I have no further interest 
in it. 

‘ ‘ And — he — your friend — really knows nothing of 
this?^^ 

“ Why should he?^'’ haughtily. 

“Ah! that is just it. Why, indeed! No doubt love, 
the all-mighty, will be more to him, than — Did I under- 
stand you to say you leave this house to-night? 

“ Yes.^^ 

“ Will you permit me to order one of the carriages for 
you; or has your friend arranged for all?^^ 

“ You are pleased to be insolent, sir, but — 

“ The night is cold: M me at least — pouring out a 
glass of wine — “ induce you to take this before encounter- 
ing the chilly air.’’^ 

“ Thank you; no. T shall never again, I hope, touch 
anything in this house. She moves toward the door. 
Branksmere coming from the other side of the table and 
following her, she turns upon him an interrogating glance. 

“ You vvill permit me to see you as far as the wicket 
gate — that is the shortest way to the road,^^ he says, an- 
swering her unspoken question. “ The night is dark and 
very cold. 

“ But no further,^ ^ hastily. 

“ If you forbid it, certainly not. I presume you are tak- 
ing the first step alone ?^^ 


286 


LADY BKAUTKSMEEE. 


Why, no. As it happens you are leading me in it.^^ 
A short untuneful laugh parts her lips. 

Captain Staines is not to meet you here?^^ 

“ Why should he meet me here?’^ she answers evasively, 
something in his tone that rings through the remarkable 
calmness of it, raising a feeling of mistrust in her bosom. 
They have reached the large hall by this time, and are now 
close to the door. 

“ What! No backward glance?^^ says Branksmere, with 
a sneering gayety. ‘‘ The last look is an orthodox per- 
formance. The staircase they tell me is of the very purest 
English type, and well worth remembrance. 

There is no need for a last glance. I shall remember 
this house, believe me, to my dying day.^^ 

‘‘ The house it much in your debt; you have honored it 
too highly,^ ^ returns Branksmere with bitter meaning; as 
he speaks he puts out his hand idly and possesses himself 
of a heavy hunting-whip lying on one of the tables. He 
weighs it lightly. 

‘°Why are you taking that?^^ demands she abruptly. 
With a sort of comfort in her frozen heart she remembers 
that Staines is to meet her, not at the wicket gate, but at 
the one lower down, so that a meeting between the two 
men may be avoided. A moment later she smiles inwardly 
at her fear; surely the last-*tliing Branksmere would do 
would be to quarrel with the man who is about to rid him 
of her forever. 

‘‘ I shall probably step round to the kennels when I 
have seen you safely on your journey. He accompanies 
his careless answer with a light laugh. It jars upon her 
even in this numbed mood of hers. When he has seen her 
safely go?ieI He can already speculate upon the next 
thing then to be done. Life will go on for him in the old 
way, the dogs will be caressed, the — Nay! Life will be a 
new thing for him, a joyous resurrection from the ashes 
of the hated past where she took part. There is something 
so thoroughly buoyant in his whole air that a feeling of 
sickening disgust takes possession of her and weighs her 
down to the earth. Oh, that all was over and done, and 
she dead, and the cruel world forgotten! And yet, alas, 
how would death avail her? What jDlace can be for such 
as her beyond the grave? 

Why, she has been so little to him, so burdensome a 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


287 


charge, that even a knowledge of the dishonor she is bring- 
ing on him, and that will lower him in the eyes of his 
world, is insufficient to quell within him the sense of glad- 
ness, of relief, that has come to him with the certainty 
that now she is about to pass out of his life forever. 

Her step grows more hurried. Arrived at the wicket 
gate, she stops abruptly. 

‘‘ Here we part,^^ she says aloud. And even as the 
words pass her lips she becomes aware of a dark figure 
standing in the shadow at the other side of the gate. A 
smothered ejaculation falls from Branksmere. Stridijig 
forward, he lays his hand upon the arm of Staines. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“ What hour save this should be thine hour — and mine?” 

Staines had evidently mistaken the place of appoint- 
ment, or else had come this much further in his anxiety to 
meet Lady Branksmere. His face blanches perceptibly in 
the dull moonlight as his eyes meet Branksmere^s, and in- 
stinctively he retreats a step or two, and looks to the right 
and left of him in a hurried fashion, as one might who is 
meditating flight. 

Ha, sir! Well met! This is an unexpected pleasure !^^ 
says Branksmere, in a high, clear voice, and with a laugh 
that makes the other^s blood run a little colder in his veins. 

There is a dead pause. The heavens above, that short 
time ago showed inky black, have now rent their gloomy 
pall to let a sullen moon shine through. She throws her 
rays upon the three figures standing in an absolute quies- 
cence, as if scarcely breathing, lighting up MuriePs pale, 
death-like face, and betraying the strange immobility of 
her features, and the utter lack of emotion that character- 
izes even her pose. Branksmere^ s face is set, and around 
his lips there plays a sardonic smile that Staines, standing 
as far away from him as he dares, hardly cares to see. 

‘‘Your usual urbanity seems to have deserted you. 
What! not a word?^-’ continues Branksmere, breaking 
through the silence, which is growing strained, and ad- 
dressing Staines wdth an air of genial gayety that the latter 
appears to regard as oppressive. He retreats still further 
into the shade of the laurels as Branksmere dehberately ap- 


^88 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


proaclies him — as with a i^urpose — and with an expression 
in his eye of suppressed but deadly fury. Perhaps the 
scene w-ould now have had a speedy end had not an inter- 
ruption occurred at this moment that attracts the attention 
of all three. 

Along the path that leads to the wicket gate the sound 
of running footsteps may be distinctly heard, and presently 
a small rounded figure comes into sight, and in another in- 
stant Mrs. Billyhs amongst them. The surprise she evinces 
at their presence here at this hour is open and immense. 
Then her glance grows keen, and it takes her but a little 
time to fully grasp the situation, or at least the headings 
of it. 

‘ ‘ I have accomplished my task half-way. I wanted to 
see you,"*^ she says, lightly,' smiling at Muriel. Are you 
really going to Lady Blount’s to-morrow? If so, will you 
come with Margery and me? The night was so pleasant 
after the heat of the day that I persuaded Peter to walk 
out with me. He has gone round to the yard to see one of 
the men about some dog, but I came straight on this way. 
Lucky, eh? Peter was just wild with me for wanting to 
come, as he said rain was in the sky, but now I’m glad I 
fought it out with him.” 

Slowly she had been reading each face, one after the 
other, and now, as a marked silence greets heiTit tie speech, 
as no answer is vouchsafed to it, she knows her first suspi- 
cions were correct. She throws back her hood and turns 
her gaze anxiously on Branksmere, who is deadly white 
and whose eyes are gleaming dangerously. There is some- 
thing fixed, rigid, about his expression that warns her if 
she can do any good she had better do 'it at once. With 
Mrs. Billy, knowledge of this kind means action. She 
turns her attention from Branksmere to Staines, who has 
grown livid, and going deliberately up to him lays her 
hand upon his arm. 

“You here, too,” she cries, in her ga}^ "^oice; 

the moon is too dull for it, perhaps — but doesn’t the 
whole scene remind you of the old days, when in the gar- 
dens at AViesbaden we used to wander beneath the lindens, 
you and I? What tete-a-Utes those were — what a lover’s 
time! and how you swore to me fidelity, eh? To me! 
Why, it seems like yesterday, so clear it all comes back to 
me.” 


LADY BRAKKSMER-E. 


289 


A murderous light rises in Staines' eyes. He would 
have shaken off her hand, but she keeps that firm little 
member so tightly clasped upon his sleeve that without 
actual violence he can not get away from her. From this 
he would not have shrunk, but for the knowledge that 
such violence would only damage his already injured cause. 

“ Ah! and those other days," begins she, again, lightly, 
but now with a thrill running through her voice — a thrill 
of angry scorn. ‘‘ You remember — " 

“ Nothing/^ interrupts he hoarsely, breaking away from 
her at last. Lady Branksmere has roused from her 
lethargy, and has drawn a step nearer, her large gray eyes 
dilated, her breath coming from her heavily. 

“ Nothing!" repeats Mrs. Billy, in a tone even more 
distinct. She laughs a low, mocking laugh that has no 
music in it. How short a lover's vows may be! Let me 
remind you; let me recall to your mind that never-to-be- 
forgotten night at Carlsbad when first we met! That 
sunny morn amongst the flowers at Schlangenbad; that 
tender evening spent amidst the falling dews. What! has 
all slipped from your treacherous memory.’" 

Staines makes an effort to speak, but fails. 

“ At least you will remember the last night on which we 
met.P What? Not even that? See now, I think I know 
something that will refresh your mind. It was on that 
very night that the unpleasant little affair occurred at the 
Comte de Grailes' rooms. Perhaps" (airily) “you can 
remember that 9 It was a small mistake about an insignifi- 
cant card, but it appears the comte was paltry enough to 
take notice of it. Ah! You do recollect it?" 

“ This is the man, then?" asks Branksmere. 

“ Why, yes. Seeing him, how can you doubt it? Mark 
the noble bearing of him," smiles Mrs. Billy, pointing to 
Staines, who is cowering before her. “ Is he not the very 
proper hero for such a romance?" 

“You knew tliis gentleman abroad; you knew him be- 
fore you came here?" asks Lord Branksmere, who has 
noted the gleam in her eyes and the suppressed indignation 
that is making the small frame tremble. 

“You have guessed it, Branksmere. This gentlmian 
and I are well acquainted." She stops suddenly, as though 
it is impossible for her to go on, and clinches her hands 
and lets a heavy, dry sob break from her. How is she to 


S90 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


tell it? Yet she has promised Margery to save this willful 
woman, if it be in her power — this woman who is now gaz- 
ing at her with a ghastly face and eyes that would pierce 
her soul ! Mrs. Billy nerves herself for a supreme effort. 
She flings from her all thought of self, and, stepping more 
clearly into the moonlight, throws out her hands toward 
Starnes. 

“ This man,^^ she says, in a clear, thrilling tone, ‘‘ once 
did me the honor to seek to f^tshonor me. 

Her face falls forward into her hands. 

“ Great Heaven! This is more than one should dare ex- 
pect of you,^^ cries Lord Branksmere, in deep agitation. 

Mrs. Billy lifts her head and looks at Staines for the last 
time. 

“ My husband knows all,^^ she says, the words coming 
reluctantly from between her teeth. “ If you would retain 
your miserable life, escape from this without delay 

She turns aside, as if to leaye them; then pauses to lay 
her shaking hand on Branksmere’ s sleeve. 

‘‘ Respect my story!” she entreats him, in a low tone. 
‘‘ I hardly know why I spoke. " 

“ 1 know,” returns he, pressing her hand. In another 
moment she has glided past them toward the house. 

“ Is this thing true?” asks Lady Branksmere, going 
straight up to Staines. 

He is silent. 

‘‘Speak, man! Answer!” cries she, imperiously, with 
a stamp of her foot. 

“ N — o,” lies the miserable wretch, with falsehood writ- 
ten in the very swaying and bending of his cowardly frame. 
What she sees convinces her. 

“ Liar!” she gasps beneath her breath. Her voice is so 
low that Staines misses the word, and still resolves to play 
the winning card if that be possible. 

“It is a disgraceful fabrication, got up by that woman 
to spite me, because I would not respond to her advances, ” 
he declares loudly, his speech growing as low as himself. 
He almost shouts his denial — so weak he finds himself m 


courage that he seeks by such means to reassure 



“ A very wild story, as you say; no doubt false all 
through,” says Branksmere with a sinister smile. “ But 
it W'as hardly to consider Mrs. HaryFa wrongs we came here 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


291 


to-night. Let them pass — until — Daryl meets you! What 
we have now to think of is another affair altogether. By 
the bye, what has brought you here?” 

He is now close to Staines, who makes a movement as 
though to depart. Lord Branksmere laying his hand 
quicfly upon his arm, gives him a sudden jerk that brings 
him to the front in a second. 

“ My good fellow, don^t go until we come to an under- 
standing,^^ he says. “ From what I have learned, you are 
anxious to take charge of Lady Branksmere from this day 
forth and forever. Eh? Why, speak up, man; she is 
here listening to you. She will want a spoken assurance 
of your faith. 

The gallant captain, whose knees seem here to cease to 
be a portion of himself, mutters something in a weak whis- 
per that as yet is unknown. 

“ You are modest,^^ goes on Branksmere, still with a 
diabolical calm full upon him. “We are waiting for the 
lover-like statements that will declare your desire to take 
charge of her you love. 

Goaded by this into speech, Staines makes answer: 

“ If you understand anything,^^ he says, “ it is, that I 
desire nothing better than to spend my days insuring the 
happiness of — 

“ Quite so!^^ interrupts Lord Branksmere, curtly. 
“You are, then, prepared to support her? She is without 
fortune, you know. There was a certain sum settled upon 
her by me, but that she does not take with her.^^ 

“ You can not deprive her of it,” cries Staines, hoarsely. 

“ True. But it appears she rejects her husband ^s gift, 
ivith her husband. Speak for yourself here, madame,^^ 
turning to his wife. “ Is this so? Is this as you would 
have it?” 

“ It is so,” returns she, icily. 

Any little blood that still remains in Staines’ face now 
flies from it. 

“ Well, sir?” questions Branksmere. “ We await your 
word.” 

But still the terrible silence continues. 

Branksmere bursts into a loud laugh. 

“ Come, my gay lover! What! not a word? Is the be- 
loved one ungilded less desirable? Come, now, one word 
then, if only for honor’s sake. Still silent? Why, how is 


293 


LADY BRAKKSMERE, 


tliiSj my lady? Has this lover of yours no tongue? Has 
passion rendered him dumb? Nay, reassure him then. 
Tell him he need not fear that poverty with him has any 
terrors for you! 8till silent, man!^^ 

He leans toward Staines, and Staines, as though com- 
pelled to it, once more answers him. His speech is ram- 
bling; it grows into a puerile mumbling at last. ‘‘He 
should dread poverty for one beloved! He had not deemed 
it possible that she would have been so foolish as to — 
He breaks down ignominiously. 

“ The truth! The truth !^'’ cries Branksmere, waving 
his craven apologies aside. “ What, swindler! canH you 
even raise your head before her whom you profess to love? 
Hoes not affection lend you courage? Where are your 
thoughts running now, eh? To that little affair in AVies- 
baden, perhaps, that has damned you with the Junior 
Army and Navy? Pshaw! how clear it all grows. Sud- 
denly he changes his tone. V You have not a penny in 
the world, eh?'’^ 

“ Not many, certainly,^ ^ confesses Staines, recklessly, 
driven to desperation by this last allusion to Wiesbaden. 

“ A mendicant, but willing to turn an hone&t penny,^^ 
says Branksmere. “ I know your sort, I think. Your 
price to clear out of this? Name it.-^^ 

“ Eeally,^^ begins Staines, stammering. 

“I know all that,^ interrupts Branksmere. “I will 
take for granted all your surprises at my extraordinary 
way of treating matters; your astonishment that I should 
think you capable of, etc. Let us come to the point. 
What will you take to leave this place to-morrow? A thou- 
sand, eh?^^ 

“ I don^t deny that it would be of use to me,-’^ says 
Staines, in a surly tone. 

“ I am to understand, then, that you value your affec- 
tion at one thousand pounds. You agree to this sum?^'’ 

“ AVell — considering — " 

“ Go on. AVhat am I to consider next?" 

“ I had not prepared myself for an interview of this 
sort. I — " 

“ You had not had sufficient time to think over your 
bargain. That can^t be helped now, I fear. I am in a 
hurry to get to the close of it. Come, sir. I await your 


LADY BRANKSMEBE, 293 

final answer with impatience/^ His fingers close over the 
riding-whip he holds. 

“It is all so new to me, you see/’’ mutters Staines. 
“ I had not imagined you — er — would have taken it in this 
way. I should not, of course, like to drag Lady Branks- 
mere into a life of pov — 

“ If you mention Lady Branksmere^s name agaiii,^^ says 
Branksmere, in an unpleasantly slow sort of way, “ I shall 
kill you!"'^ 

“ Oh, Ik’s not so easy to kill a fellow,'’^ says Staines, be- 
ginning to bluster a bit, Branksmere^ s enforced calm up to 
this having led him fatally astray. “ It seems to me that 
for a fastidious man of honor, such as you boast yourself 
to be, you have taken all this precious easily. ^ 

“ Your price says Branksmere, in an ominous tone. 

“ But perhaps,'’-’ with a sneer, “ you looked upon me in 
the light of a deliverer; if so, you have spoiled your own — 

“ Your price says Branksmere again, breathing 
heavily. 

“You offer me a thousand; but you should take certain 
things into consideration when making an arrangement of 
this kind,'’ ^ returns Staines, who, having recovered from 
his abject fit of cowardice of a moment since, now fiies to 
the other extreme, and grows grossly insolent with a view 
of reasserting himself. “Silence on the subject of your 
wife^s character, for example, and — 

“ Damnation 

Almost as the word leaves Lord Branksmere^s lips he 
has Staines within his grasp, and forcing him upon his 
knees, and holding him by the collar of his coat, he drags 
him along the ground until he has him at Lady Branks- 
mere'’s feet. 


CHAPTEE XLIIL 

Strong reasons make strong actions.'* 

“ Look at him, regard him well,^^ he cries, in a low, 
terrible tone: “ what a brave front he shows! How now, 
my gay Lothario, where are your winning smiles? Take 
heart, man, all is not yet lost. The equivalent for your 
disappointment shall be yours to-morrow morning, and 
now, as earnest for your money you shall have — this 


294 : 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


He lifts the hunting-whip, and brings it down with sav- 
age force upon the shoulders of the kneeling wretch. Like 
hai] the blows descend ; the miserable hound making no re- 
sistance — nay, even once or twice crying aloud for mercy as 
the pain grows keener. 

There comes a moment when Branksmere ceases to hold 
him, and Staines, crawling nearer to Muriel, seizes her 
skirt, and in a tone wild with terror implores her protec- 
tion. In abject fear he clings to her, until Branksmere, 
whose fury now is ungovernable, cuts away the trembling 
fingers by a cruel stroke of the whip that is now nearly in 
ribbons. 

^ Lady Branksmere sickens a little at this sight, and lifts 
both her hands to her head. 

“ Enough, enough she cries, faintly “Let him go! 
Would you take his life?^^ She drags Branksmere back 
with all her might.. “ Let him go; for my sake . " 

The words act like a spell. He flings the half-dead 
Staines from him, as a dog might fling a rat, and turns 
furiously upon her, panting more from passion than 
fatigue. 

“Ah! for your sake! You love him still then, swindler, 
seducer that he is?^ ^ 

“ No, no, believe me. I was thinking of you then — 

“ For the first time, eh?^^ He pushes her from him, and 
looks back thirstily to where his adversary had fallen, but 
that worthy had taken advantage of the interruption to 
crawl away into the darkness like the reptile that he is. 

“ Come,^^ says Branksmere, once more approaching his 
wife. 

“ Where asks she, shrinking from him. 

“ Back to the house. 

“No! Oh! no!^^ with a strong shudder. 

“ But I say yes,^^ sternly. “ What!^^ with a stamp of 
his foot. “ Would you have this indecent farce go furtner? 
Back to the house, I say, and hide this nighFs work from 
the world, with your life, if it yet be possible; if,^^ regard- 
ing her fixedly, “ I still can rely upon your word that you 
have told no one but me of your intended flight. 

“ Why should you doubt it?’^ asks she, coldly. “ Did I 
conceal anything? When did I lie to you? — even of this,^^ 
with a comprehensive gesture. “ I warned you. It is you 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 295 

who have lied to me. There is no emotion in her tone^ no 
indignation, only a settled indifference. 

“Have IF^^says Branksmere. He struggles with him- 
self for a moment, and then goes on. “ Let that rest, the 
present has to be considered. Your miserable story is 
Known now only to you and me and ^ ^ — he hesitates — he is 
about to mention Mrs. Billy, who he is assured is cognizant 
of all, but he refrains, “ and to that cur,^^ he winds vp 
through his teeth. 

“ But after this — ^to see you eveiy day,^^ falters she faint- 
ly. “To be obliged to speak — to look — Oh! ifc is horri- 
ble!" 

“HI can bear it, you can,^^ returns he, significantly. 

“ True, you have shown yourself forbearing, she says, 
and shivers a little as if with cold. And in truth she is 
cold to her very heartstrings. Everything is at an end for 
her. Her affairs have come to a deblock. Hope, even of 
a poor sort, is killed within her. Where is she to turn, 
where to go? How may life still hold sweets for such as 
she? “ All is reaped now: no grass is left to mow,^^ the 
end indeed has come. 

There is, perhaps, an accentuation of her grief in the 
thought that she herself has had the chief hand in it. With 
all the world before her where to choose, she had elected to 
wed Branksmere without a loving thought toward him, and 
now where is she landed? Alas! for the barrenness of the 
coast, the cruelty of the rocks, the force of the driving 
waves! She is utterly bankrupt; there is no escape for her 
— ^no hope — nothing. 

Not another word is uttered between them until they 
once more reach the library, where she has mechanically 
followed him. 

“ You are cold,^^ he says, abruptly, marking the trem- 
bling of her frame; “ come closer to the fire." fie would 
have unfastened the lace wrappings round her throat, but 
she repels him. 

“ Don^t touch me,^^ she exclaims, in a fierce, miserable 
tone. 

“ As you will,^^ returns he, shrugging his shoulders. 
“ You feel injured it seems, yet I think you should feel 
gratitude at this moment of your existence, if never again. 

“ Gratitude to whom?^^ 


29C 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


To Mrs. Daryl. You should thank her all your days 
for what she did for you to-night. 

“ Should 

“ She made a sacrifice for you that few women would 
have made — 


“ And which I did not desire. Her story was a strange 
one when all is told. What a confession! Yet you fall 
down before her. How much better is she than me? Oh, 
no, no she cries, suddenly, as if in horror of herself, 
“ she is a good, a pure woman, and I dare not malign her; 
but what help she has! Her happy marriage and the love: 
always she has love,^^ she ends, in a broken voice. 

“ She is, as you say, a good woman, returns Branks- 
mere, coldly. 


“ And therefore a thing apart from the rest of your 
acquaintances,^^ sneers she. 

‘ You at least, I repeat, should be grateful to her.^^ 

“ And yet I am not,^^ she laughs, suddenly, in a low 
but rather wild fasliion. 

‘‘ Still hankering after that precious lover of yours, 
says Branksmere, contemptuously. 

“ Ho. I am regretting only the loss of the last hope I 
had. Henceforth I am hopeless !^^ Her sad laughter has 
died from her, and now she hides away her face as might 
one who is stricken to death. There is despair in her 
gesture. 

“I am sorry to have been the one to dissipate your 
dream, yet that is the best service I could have done you.'’^ 
Here his enforced calm gives way. “ Fool!^^ he cries, 
savagely, “ canT you see how it was?^^ 

‘‘ I do see, and yet if I had gone with him — 

“ You never would have gone with him, at all events. 
If he h^ refused my terms, if he had addressed another 
word to you, I would have killed him as I would a dog!'’^ 

“ Perhaps you have killed him,^^ says she, indifferently. 

“ Such vermin die hard. Let no fears for him mar your 
rest to-night. The remembrance of that check he is to re- 
ceive to-morrow morning will keep him alive. 

At this she winces. 

‘‘To persons of your temperament,” continues he, 
“ safety is probably a dull good, yet believe me it has its 
charms at times. To-night you have returned to it.’’^ 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 




297 


‘‘I have returned to my prison, rather, retorts she, 
bitterly. She turns from him and leaves the room. 

Slowly she mounts the stairs, a small lamp within her 
hand. Her face is ghastly pale, her blood feverish; a 
strong shrinking from finding herself alone with her own 
thoughts leads her footsteps toward the heavy curtain that 
has behind it the dowager^s apartments, and Mme. von 
Thirsk^s. An idle fancy to waste her time by making some 
inquiries about the old woman^s health suggests itself to 
her. Moving with slow, indifferent steps, she draws back 
the curtain noiselessly, and steps into the dimly lighted 
ante-chamber beyond. 

Her senses are too benumbed to permit of her feeling 
any very great surprise when she meets Mme. von Thirsk 
here. The Hungarian is leaning eagerly out of the open 
window, as though in expectation of something. The 
sound of MurieTs advancing footsteps reaching her at last, 
she turns abruptly toward her. 

It M^ould be impossible to avoid noticing the expression 
of blank dismay that overspreads her features as her eyes 
fall on Muriel. The blood rushes in a crimson fiush to her 
brow, and then receding, leaves her white as death. Evi- 
dently she is a prey to some very violent emotion, against 
which she has had no time to guard herself. To Lady 
Branksmere it occurs vaguely, that intense and terrible 
disappointment is what is most plainly written upon her 
mobile face. 

I have disturbed you, madame,-’^ she says, coldly, re- 
garding her with a judicial scrutiny that the other woman 
plainly resents. 

‘‘ E’ot at all. I was but looking on the night, she an- 
swers in a somewhat quavering voice that is hardly so care- 
fully English as usual. 

‘‘A gloomy picture.'’^ On the instant it flashes across 
MurieTs mind that this woman knew something of her in- 
tended flight. Why had she looked so surprised, so baffled, 
when she saw her? Had she been longing for her depart- 
ure? Or — more hateful thought still, and one that stings 
more cruelly, was she waiting here for Branksmere? 'Was 
there an appointment arranged between them? 

Even as she ponders hurriedly on these imaginings, a 

Tit repetition of the cry that had come to her twice be- 
i‘oj> ; startles her into more active thought. Looking round 


29S 


LADY BRANKSMERE, 


instinctively to madame she finds she has disappeared, and 
that she is standing alone in the anteroom. Crossing 
hurriedly to the dowager^s door she knocks. 

It is opened by Brooks; the pale, still woman who had 
struck Muriel so many times before as being almost blood- 
less. She checks Lady Branksmere as she makes a move- 
ment to enter the room. 

‘‘ Her ladyship is not well to-night, my lady. I think 
it will be wiser not to excite her with your presence. 

“ I do not remember that my presence ever excited her 
before. Was it she who uttered that cry just now?^^ 

A cry, my lady?^^ The woman, who as a rule keeps 
her eyes fixed immovably upon the ground, lifts them now 
suddenly and glances at Lady Branksmere. They are 
peculiar eyes, so light as to seem sightless. 

“ Certainly, a cry. You who were with her must have 
heard it.^^ 

“ She often cries aloud, my lady. I am so accustomed 
to hear it, that perhaps I took no notice. Brooks^ voice 
is low, and a singular expression gathers around the cor- 
ners of her thin lips. It is possible she had not heard the 
cry from wherever it came, and is now hurriedly dwelling 
upon that fact. A suspicion of excitement enters into her 
manner, with a very open desire to get rid of Muriel with 
all speed. ‘‘ You will excuse me, my lady,^^ she said 
quickly. “ I must return to madame. 

“ Keturn by all means; I shall go with you.^^ 

“Not to-night, my lady. I beg you will not come in 
here to-night. I beg you will not disturb, distress — " 

“ Has Lord Branksmere given you orders to forbid my 
entrance here?^^ 

“ No, my lady. But believe me it will be wiser not to 
enter — to-night. . It will be better for you to leave this.^^ 

“ So I shall when I have seen Lady Branksmere. 

“ You can not see her ladyship to-night, says the wom- 
an, in a tone of ill-suppressed anger that is curiously mixed 
with fear. ■ 

“ Let me pass,^^ returns Muriel, curtly. For the in- 
stant it occurs to her that the woman means to resist her, 
but a thin, high, terribly piercing old voice coming to 
them, checks any further argument. It is the dowager ’f’. 


LADY BBANKSMERE. 


299 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

" I know him a notorious liar, 

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward.” 

“Who is there mumbling at that door. Brooks? Let 
^em in; let ^em in, I say. Am I to be kept imprisoned 
here by you, with no one to give me ever a good-day? 
Let ^em in, I tell you.^^ 

“ It is I, Lady Branksmere,^^ sa 3 ^s Muriel, advancing to 
her, and leaning over her in the hearse-like bed in which 
she lies. If it could be said of any one so old that she looks 
older, Muriel would have thought so; older and more en- 
feebled and ghastlier. The hair dressed in the fashion of a 
long past generation, looks as though it were clinging to 
the skull of a corpse, the wrinkles on the forehead re- 
sembled leather more than skin; altogether the poor old 
soul suggests the idea of having been forgotten by death, 
and left here to slowly molder above ground instead of 
doing it more reputably in the family vault among the 
bones of her ancestors. 

“ And who are you, eh? eh?’^ demands the old creature, 
lifting her weird face to stare at Muriel, whom she has seen 
in the morning. “ You are not the other one, are you?^^ 

“ The other?^^ 

“ Yes, yes. The little one in her white gown. So 
pretty; so pretty,’’^ mumbles the old lady, her head nod- 
ding as if gone beyond her control in her excitement. 
“ Such a little thing. 

“ Hush, madame! You donH know what you are say- 
ing,^-’ interposes Brooks, sharply. “ Sometimes she raves, 
my lady, and you know I warned you she was not well to- 
night. 

“ She seems to me quite as usual. That strange hallu- 
cination, or whatever it is that clings to her, never varies. " 

“ You are wrong. Brooks; wrong. It was a white gown; 
and there was blood upon it — bright specks of blood. Eh? 
Eh? I recollect it all. Eh? Oh! my bonny boy — my 
handsome laddie 1^^ Here she falls into impotent weeping, 
until Brooks, with a sudden jerk of her arm, brings her 
into another position, whereupon she is all nods and becks 


300 


tiABY BHANKSMERE. 


and wreathed smiles again. This receiving of visitors, and 
the idle maunderings to them of by-gone memories, is the 
only means of consolation that she acknowledges. Once 
Muriel had tried to read a Psalm to her, but so great .had 
been her indignation that she never attempted it again. 
Now, having bidden her good-night, she moves toward the 
] door. As Brooks with her eyes on the ground holds it 
! open for her, another cry, very low and subdued, seems to 
creep to her through the semi-darkness of the apartment. 

Muriel lifts her head sharply. 

“ There it is again. was not Lady Branksmere,’’^ 

she says, scrutinizing the woman^s face keenly. But it 
never moves. 

‘‘ What is it, my ladyP^ 

That terrible cry. It sounded like the wail of a hurt 
animal, answers Muriel, with a shudder. 

“ I heard no cry, my lady,^^ says the woman, sullenly. 
” But they do say this corridor is haunted.^'’ 

AVith a last glance at her impassive countenance, Muriel 
steps from the room and hurries swiftly out of sight, her 
head throbbing, her heart beating wildly. What mystery 
lay hidden in those rooms — ^those rooms beyond the one 
where the old dowager lay? From whom came that wild, 
melancholy wail? What horrible thing is hidden in this 
detested castle? And now to know that she must forever 
dwell beneath its roof till kindly death releases her! 

She sinks upon a low stool, and lets her j)roud head fall 
until it rests upon her knees round which her hands are 
clasped. A forlorn figure, void of hope. Sadly, desper- 
ately her thoughts wander, now here, now there, but — after 
one brief dwelling on him that ends in a long-drawn breath 
of heaviest disgust — never again to Staines. He has 
dropped out of her life, and with his loss has come the 
knowledge that love for him had had no part in the 7'6le 
she has planned for her own acting. There had been only 
the desire to escape, and the foolish belief in his love, and 
above all, the longing for revenge! 

And now what is left her? How can she endure the 
daily intercourse with Branksmere — the chance meetings 
with madame. These last may indeed be avoided, as ma- 
dame for the last week or two has elected to dine in her 
own rooms, stating as her pretext that the dowager is fail- 
ing fast^ to attend whom is evidently an arduous task, as 


LADY BRAKKSMEDE. 301 

madame has ffrown singularly wan and delected during 
this fortnight. 

The manner of the woman Brooks to-night has taken 
strange hold upon Muriel, Of one thing she is assured, 
that if anything secret lies within those rooms, she. Brooks, 
knows of it. To solve the mystery ! to lay bare this hidden 
thing; to confront Branksmere with the disgraceful story 
he so fain would hide from her, his wife ! It were well 
worth the trial. To get the keys, to open wide this Blue- 
beard^s closet, even though discovery be her own ruin, is a 
task that seems so good to her that involuntarily she 
springs to her feet with flashing eyes and parted lips, 
though still her dead-white face rests pale and colorless. 
So be it then. If Branksmere compels her to remain 
within his doors, let him look to it! for now, her suspicions 
thoroughly awake, she will show no quarter, but will lay 
bare this guilty secret, whatever it may be. 

No sleep comes to her this night. Broad awake, she lies, 
hour after hour, with her eyes wide in the darkness, and 
her tired brain rushing through the arid plains of past 
griefs and joys. She would gladly have broken away from 
all such miserable memories, and wandered into the realm 
of dreams, but such rest is denied her. Aloud she calls on 
sleep to come to her, but all in vain; each well-known 
remedy she tries, yet fails in all. 

“ A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds, and seas, 

Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; — 

I’ve thought of all by turns, and still I lie 
Sleepless.” 

The dawning of the morn finds her still with her eyes 
open, staring eagerly for the first faint flecks of light. 

% 4s 4c 4: 4: % 

The chill soft breeze that heralds the opening day has 
hardly yet arisen, however, and darkness still covers the 
land — a profound darkness that tells of the coming death 
of Night. A figure, cloaked and hooded, emerging from 
the quaint old oaken door on the western side of the Castle, 
looks nervously round her as she steps into the blackness 
and tries to pierce it. Moving swiftly and unerringly, with 
light, firm footstep in the direction of the wooded path to 
lier right, she enters the line of elms, and makes for a 


302 


LADY BRANKSMERL. 


dense bit of brushwood further on. Arrived at it she 
pauses, and a low ‘‘ cooee issues from her lips. It is 
answered presently, and the woman, drawing a tiny lantern 
from beneath her cloak, turns it full upon the man who 
has answered her call. 

It is Staines, though it is easier to recognize him by his 
clothes than his features. Bruised, swollen, utterly de- 
moralized in appearance, with a large strip of sticking- 
plaster across his Grecian nose, it is no wonder that the 
woman on first glancing at him gives way to an exclama- 
tion of horror. 

“ What is it; what has happened, then?^^ cries she, in a 
low tone. ‘‘ I sent for you that I might learn how the 
affair fell through, but I had not expected this.^^ Ma- 
dame points expressively at his disfigured face. ‘‘ AVell, 
well, well?^^ she exclaims, impatiently, as he makes her no 
reply. “ How is it wdth you.^^^ 

“It is all up,^^ snarls he, hoarsely. “ Nothing now is 
left but fiighi^^v 

“ What, you have failed!” hisses she through her teeth. 
“With the game in your hands you have lost! Ach!’^ she 
gives way to a free curse or two in her own language, and 
stamps her foot with irrepressible passion upon the ground. 

“But only for the time being, she continues, eagerly. 
“ You will still win? Is it not? Patience — patience and 
your revenge for all will be sure. 

“ No, it won^t,^^ says he, doggedly; “ I^ve done with it. 
I'm played out, I tell you. That Daryl woman came upon 
the scene, and damned my cause with her. " 

“ Mrs. Daryl! what had she to say to you?" asks ma- 
dame, whereupon the ingenious Staines gives her his version 
of that little romance in Germany. 

“ And this you kept from me," cries madame, furious- 
ly, when he has finished. “ Ah! if I had but known. Her 
silence might have been secured. I could have managed 
that, when one remembers she had a husband with whom 
she is in 'love. Fool! Idiot! could you not trust me in 
such a matter as that? If your scruples about betraying 
Mrs. Daryl's little secret were so strong, still — " 

“ I don't think it was that," interrupts the magnani- 
mous Staines. “ It was that I felt secure in the thought 
that ^ she would not betray herself. But," sulkily, ‘‘there 
is ho use talking about it now.^^ 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


303 


** You will not make one more effort? Your influence 
over — her, is surely strong enough to enable you to con- 
vince her that Mrs. Daryl lied?^^ 

“It is too late, I tell you; she never so much as looked 
after me when he — when I — that is — when I left them. 

“Oh! to have toiled, and lied, and worked for — this!^^ 
cries she, wildly. “ How I have labored to place that 
woman beneath my feet that I might trample on her, crush 
her, and now — to be entirely balked of my revenge, and 
all through your imbecility. 

“ Hers rather. Had she not told Branksmere of her de- 
termination to leave liim, she would have been well out of 
your path by this time. He would gladly have been rid of 
her, 1 believe, but she misunderstood him when she sup- 
pose he would make no fight for his honor. 

“ Well, you have lost your money,^-’ says she. 

“ Why! no. It appears she had made up her mind not 
to touch a penny of it.^^ 

“Hali!"’^ She comes nearer to him and examines his 
features (which look rather mixed) in a curious way. “ So 
that was why you did not make a greater stand, she cries. 
“ When the money failed you, you cried off! You have 
been false to our bargain. 5fou have destroyed the re- 
venge which I swear to you was more to me than the hopes 
of winning his love. Ah, poUron ! coward! lacheV^ Her 
frame trembles with passion. She goes nearer to him still, 
and turns the lamp, with an insolent air, on his bowed fig- 
ure, and the generally craven appearance that marks him. 
“So he you!^^ she cries, exultantly. “Beat you be- 
fore her — ^your ideal! Ach — the brave fellow !^^ She 
breaks into a loud, derisive laugh. 

“ Go home, you she-devil, before I murder you,^^ breathes 
Staines, fiercely. Seizing her by the throat he shakes her 
violently to and fro, and flings her from him into the thick 
darkness of the shrubs behind her. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

Filled from the heart to the lips with love, 

Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings.” 

“ Well!^^ exclaims Mrs. Billy, in a heartfelt tone. She 
ginks into a chair and looks round her— the very picture of 


3.04 


LADY BRAKKSMEllE. 


misery. ‘‘ What a cruel shock to him^ poor fellow. I asv 
sure you the news has made me feel just anyhow! Such a 
thing to go and happen to him.^^ 

‘‘ It is a beastly shame/^ says Dick, indignantly. 

“What is? What^s the matter?^^ asks Mr. Paulyn^ 
saimtering into the room at Angelica's heels, with whom 
it is quite evident he is not now on speaking terms. 

“ Why, haven't you heard?" asks Mrs. Billy, with tears 
in her eyes, “ about poor Curzon? The failure of that 
Cornish mine has ruined him. " 

“ Bless my soul!" cries Tommy. “ What a horrid 
thought! Where is he? Who told you? It's a lie most 
likely." 

“ No such luck," returns Billy dejectedly. “ It's only 
too true. Poor old chap! I had a line from him about an 
hour ago, and Peter has run down to him to bring him up 
here. He can't be left by himself, you know. " 

“ Bless my soul!" says Mr. Paulyn again, whose conver- 
sational brilliancies seem to have deserted him, and who 
appears to find a fund of consolation in thus entreating 
blessings on himself. Instinctively his eyes turn on Mar- 
gery, who is sitting a little apart from the rest, pale and 
silent, but certainly the least moved of the lot. 

“ So that young man has come to grief, hey?" calls out 
a gruff old voice from the hall outside. “ Never thought 
much of him myself," Sir Mutius by this time has entered 
the room. “ Pools and their money soon part." 

“ Uncle Mutius, how can you speak of him; how was it 
his fault?" cries Angelica angrily. “ Did he make the hate- 
ful mine a failure? You must see how cruel it is of you 
to talk like that." 

“ Hold your tongue, miss! What d'ye mean by being 
so saucy? . D'ye forget that I am your uncle, Angelica? I 
tell you that any one in this world who falls from riches 
into poverty will be counted a fool by most. " 

“ You see now, Angelica, what a reprehensible thing it 
is to be so hopelessly ignorant as you are," says Mr. Pau- 
lyn, shaking his heM reprovingly at his cousin, who looks 
daggers at him in return. 

“ Whilst men like William," goes on the old mischief- 
maker, “ who raise themselves from poverty to riches by 
means of a moneyed wife, are always applauded." 

If he had. hoped to incense Mrs. Billy by this coarse al- 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 


305 


lusion to her wealth, he is disappointed. That small ma- 
tron casts a glance at her husband, after which they both 
break into untimely mirth. 

“ Ah! you can laugh, can you,^*’ growls Sir Mutius, 

when your chief friend is so sore smitten! Poor comfort 
heTl get from you, i^ faith, in spite of all your protesta- 
tions. Well, I^m glad / never professed alfection for the 
young man. I^ve the less trouble now. How about you, 
Margery? He was a beau of yours. Eh?^^ 

‘‘Most people like Margery, interposes Mrs. Billy 
quickly, noting something mutinous in the girPs mouth. 
“ And Ourzon affected us all, more or less. You must 
not draw conclusions. Sir Mutius, from the fact that he 
was here so often. 

“ Permit me to say, madame, that Mr. Belle w, whom 
you designate so familiarly as Ourzon, was known to me 
long before your advent, and that you can hardly post me 
as to his affairs. I say he was in love with my niece Mai*- 
gery, and that she had the very good sense to have nothing 
to do with him. A fortunate thing now, Margery, as 
things have turned out — hey? If you had engaged your- 
self to him you might have had some difficulty in getting 
out of it, and marriage with a beggar would hardly suit 
you — eh? — ha! — Oh! Good-morrow, Belle w; good-mor- 
row 


“ You are right. Sir Mutius, marriage with a beggar 
means only misery, says Ourzon calmly, who had entered 
the room during the old man^s speech. He is looking pale 
and haggard, but not beaten. A great despair lies in his 
honest eyes, born of a renunciation of a dear hope, but he 
holds his head as high as ever, and there is no faltering in 
his clear, sweet voice. 

“ It is quite true, then, Ourzon? Is there no chance for 
you?” asks Angelica, who has run to him, and thrown her 
arms round his neck to give him a loving kiss. 

“ None whatever,^^ bravely, “ in the way you mean. I 
went up to my lawyer about it this morning, and it ap- 
pears when all is over and done I shall be left with about 
£400 a year. The old place, of course, will have to go, 
and — He stops abruptly, and walks over to the window. 
Mrs. Billy and Angelica burst into tears; the men fidget. 
Margery alone remains calm and unsymj)athetic as a statue. 

“ Oh! hang it, you know, iPs impossible; a fellow can't 


306 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 


be swindled like that, without any redress/^ breaks out 
Tommy, commencing to prance about the room. ‘‘ Let’s 
all put our heads together, and try what can be done.” 

‘^Nothing can be done,” says Curzon, turning round 
again. “I’ve thought it all out, and in time I shall be rec- 
onciled to it. I shall forget it all — that is ” — looking down 
— “ nearly all! And one can work, you know; and there’s 
many a fellow hasn’t even £400 a year.” 

“ No, by Jove,” acquiesces Dick heartily, who hasn’t a 
penny beyond what his brains will bring him. 

“ I dare say to some, therefore, that amount might 
mean riches,’’ goes on Curzon, pleading his own cause 
bravely, “ though I agree with you. Sir Mutius ” — ^looking 
at him with a kind smile — “ that it really does mean beg- 
gary. But that is the result of one’s training.” 

“ No, no, don’t mistake me,” says the old baronet, 
bringing his stick firmly down upon the carpet. “ Four 
hundred pounds a year is not to be despised. It is an ex- 
cellent sum, excellent, and may be — ” 

“ But not to one accustomed to as many thousands,” in- 
terrupts Mrs. Billy tearfully. 

“ I was going to say, when you so rudely interrupted 
me,” goes on Sir Mutius crossly; “ that if properly utilized 
such a sum might make the foundation of a fortune. Now 
abroad — ” spreading forth his hands and lifting his brows, 
and casting his glance full of the liveliest encouragement 
at Curzon — “ there is great scope for a young man’s intel- 
lect when backed up with a little capital. You might go 
to New Zealand, for example — a fine opening there — or to 
Australia, or to Canada.” 

“Or to the deuce!” supplements Billy cheerfully. 
“ But, after all, perhaps, none of us, however lucrative 
the post, would hardly care to see him there.” 

“ You are fiippant, William,” growls Sir Mutius, frown- 
ing. 

“ What Sir Mutius means,” says Curzon boldly, though 
his lips turn very white, “ is, that he would be glad to see 
me well out of this country because of Margery. But there 
he is mistaken. I assure you. Sir Mutius, your niece never 

f ave me any cause to hope she loved me, never even when 
had something to offer her, and now — ’ ’ 

I am very glad to hear it from your lips, too, although 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 307 

1 knew it before. My niece, sir, is a young woman of 
sense. She will marry well, if she marries at all.^^ 

“ That is quite truel^^ The voice is Margery^ s, and a 
sudden silence falls upon the room as she speaks. She 
has risen from her seat, and is looking with her beautiful 
eager eyes full at Belle w. “I shall do well indeed if I 
marry Curzon. She advances toward Ourzon in a slow, 
dreamy fashion, and then stops short and holds out her 
hands to him. “Will you have me, Curzon?^^ she asks 
softly. 

“ No — no,^^ cries Bellew, pressing her back from him. 
“ I understand the sacrifice, my — Don^t make it so hard 
for me, Margery; you are all so kind, so tender, and now 
this from you! — my best friend, 

“ Ah!^^ murmurs she piteously, in a very agony of dis- 
tress. “ Why — donT you know she covers her face with 
her hands. “Take me away from this, she whispers 
faintly. 

“ Yes, go. Into the garden — anywhere! believe her — 
believe every word she says,^^ cries Mrs. Billy, pushing 
them both toward the door. 

“ Come back here, Margery — come back I say,^^ roars 
Sir Mutius; but Margery has gone beyond his lungs. 
“ And to think that I meant to make that girl my heiress 
cries he, raging. “ But she shall see — she shall see!''^ 

At present she sees nothing — not even Curzon, who is 
standing beside her a very monument of despairing love. 

“ DonT be so unhappy about it,^^ he says gently, mis- 
taking her embarrassment. They have reached the inner 
garden and are safe from prying eyes. “ Do you think I 
donT understand the generosity that prompted you to 
speak when Sir Mutius was making himself so objectiona- 
ble; do you think when you said, ^ Why — don^’t you know 
that I didnH know? My darling, were you afraid I should 
take you at your word? I sometimes used to think that as 
you liked me (you do like me, donT you, Margery?) and as 
it was in my power to make you happy in many little ways, 
that it was no harm to try and induce you to marry me; 
but now — Well, it is out of my power to make you hap- 
py in the little ways now, and — 

“ Let me speak,^^ cries she distractedly. “ Oh! Curzon, 
there is something — a small thing — ^just one thing that I 
must tell you.^^ 


308 


LADY BEAlsTKSMERK 


That you never really cared for me? Why, I knew 
that, my love,^-’ replies he rather wearily. 

‘‘No. Oh! no. 8he stands back from him, and 
glances at him rather shamefacedly. Then comes a step 
nearer. “It is only — that I do love you so F’ she cries 
suddenly, the tears running down her cheeks. 

“ Take care, Margery. Remember everything!^'’ says 
Belle w, trembling. “I am poor. I have nothing now 
— with deep agitation — “worth offering, save my love. 
You know that.’’ 

“ It is because I do know it that I speak. All at once I 
seemed to know! When you came into the room and stood 
before us all, with that pale look upon your face, and said 
that you were ruined, I felt at once that if you hadn’t a 
farthing on earth I was born to be your wife. ” 

“My little sweet soul!” says Curzon, in a low breath- 
less tone. He has not gone nearer. It seems as though 
he can do nothing but look at her, so fair, so sweet, and 
all his own. She has lifted her hands to her pretty flushed 
cheeks, and now she raises her eyes to his shyly. 

“Won’t you have me for your wife, Curzon?” she 
whispers tremulously, and then in a moment she is in his 
embrace, their arms round each other, their eyes look long, 
as though each would search the other’s heart, and when 
at last their lips meet, ruin and trouble and possible pov- 
erty are forgotten, and a breath’ from heaven is theirs. 

For love, Thy purest and greatest gift, let us, 0 Thou 
Giver of all things, be duly gratefid! 

“ You are sure you love me?” asks he presently, as 
though fearful of her answer. 

“ Quite — quite sure,” earnestly. “ And so happy in 
the thought that you love me.” 

“You must have been happy in that thought a long 
time, darling. ” 

“ How much you have borne from me,” she murmurs 
softly. “How bad I have been to you! There is a line 
somewhere that always reminds me of you; you have been 
so good, so patient: ‘ He was therewith full -filled of gen- 
tleness. ’ I have thought it all out long ago, you see, but I 
never was certain of myself until to-day. ” 

“ Until I told you that I had lost everything?” 

“ Yes/' 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 309 

Then I am glad that mine failed/^ says this foolish 
young man, simply and truly, and from his heart. 

“ That isn^t a very wise thing to say, is it?^^ murmurs 
Miss Daryl, thoughtfully. “ And yet, do you know, I m}^- 
self donH feel sorry. 

“ Of course, we shall have something,^ ^ says he ruefully. 
‘‘ But £400 a year! It is penury. 

“ It is opulence,^^ sayly, “ with the love we can throw in.^^ 

‘‘ Oh, Margery! If I was sure you would never regret 
it! But it looks to me almost like a swindle to get you to 
marry me, now that I am worth almost nothing. If you 
should ever reproach . me it would almost kill me. Sot 
that that would signify at all,^'’ hastily. ‘‘ Only I am 
afraid the disappointment and the worry might make you 
miserable. 

To this she returns no answer, save a terrible silence. 
With her eyes fixed obstinately upon the ground she lets a 
full minute go by without a word from her; a sure method 
of betraying oner’s anger! Curzon feels it. Her indigna- 
tion — that touches him instinctively, yet is not understood 
by him at the moment — lies like a weight upon him. 

“ You are vexed with me!""^ he says contritely. 

“ Have I no cause?' ^ she answers, with quick reproach. 
And then with a sudden, pretty shy impulse, she over- 
comes herself, and drawing a little closer to him, winds her 
soft arms around his neck as a child might do, and raises 
her lips to his as though asking for a caress. This demand^ 
how sweet it is! His clasp tightens round her, 

“ The cause, sweetheart?" 

‘‘That you should ask it! And yet I have given you 
reason indeed to doubt me. But do not, Curzon. Try to 
believe that poverty and privation with you would be sweet- 
er to me than life with any other man, had he the mines 
of Golconda. " 

“ I do believe you," says Bellew. 

This, indeed, is the last doubt, he ever entertains of her. 

“ You must forgive me if I pained you, but I have been 
left so long without hope to comfort me, that certainty, 
now it has come, has dazzled me." Then, “ Darling, I 
love you. Hoio I love you," he breathes, rather than 
speaks. 

She laughs softly, and the dawn of a blush breaks upon 
her cheek. 


310 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


I know that/^ she says saucily. ‘‘ If ^owdon^t trust 
me, you see I trust you. But of one thing I warn you, 
Curzon, that I am not married to you yet. There is many 
a slip, you know. 

‘‘Not when one is fairly caught.'’^ 

“ Caught!^' stepping daintily behind a huge rose-bush. 
“ Who said that word? Am I caught, think you? Well, 
a last chance then! If Jyou catch me before I reach the 
yew-tree over there, ITl— 

Most unfairly she starts away across the velvet sward, 
straight for the desired harbor, giving him hardly time to 
understand her challenge. But love has wings, and before 
she has reached the aged yew she is in his grasp, and once 
for all she owns him conqueror. 

4: Hi ^ ^ 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

“ Every sense 

Had been overstrung by pangs intense, 

* * ih ^ 

And each frail fiber of her brain, 

Sent forth herlhoughts all wild and wide.” 

* * * ^ * 

Mme. vok Thirsk has fallen asleep. A glorious flood 
of October sunshine streaming into the library reveals this 
fact. 

Although so late in the autumn the days are still bright 
and enjoyable; there is only a pleasant chill upon the air, 
and the leaves fall softly to their graves through golden 
gleams of sunlight. The wind that lifts them from their 
boughs and wafts them to the breast of the earth is full of 
vigor, and indeed the whole air is rich in a vitality that 
should give him who breathes it renewed strength. Ma- 
dame, however, seems to have derived small benefit from it. 
Lying back in her chair, in a slumber so deep, so motion- 
less as to suggest exhaustion, one may notice the lines of 
care or anxiety, or perhaps subtly concealed sorrow that 
marks each feature. Her lips are pale and drawn, her 
cheeks sunken, dark shadows lie beneath her eyes, that 
seem as though sleep had for some time past been a stranger 
to them. She looks anything but her' best; to look that, 


lADT BRANKSMERE. 311 

one must be happy, and grief and she appear to be on 
friendly terms. 

Lady Branksmere, who has entered the room in her usual 
slow, lifeless fashion, so lightly as to fail to disturb so 
heavy a sleeper, draws near to her through a sort of 
fascination, and standing over her stares down upon, and 
studies the face, so impenetrable as a rule, but now laid 
bare and unprotected in its unconsciousness. 

For a long time she gazes upon the woman she deems her 
rival, a bitter smile upon her lips. Then her eyes wander 
over madame^s elaborately simple toilet, over the exquisite- 
ly shaped little brown hands so covered with costly rings, 
over the carefully careless knot of ribbons upon her breast, 
down to the her waist, where, something catching her eye, 
rivets her attention immovably and puts an end to her idle 
examinationf 

After all it is only a key. A well-sized key of a very 
ordinary type. In effect a door-key! It could hardly be 
termed an ornament, such as might be worn by so fastid- 
ious a dresser as madame, yet it hangs now from her belt 
by a slight but strong, silken cord. It had evidently been 
concealed in the bosom of her gown, and had escaped dur- 
ing her slumber, and is now lying so that any one may 
see it. 

Lady Branksmere^s lips pale, and her eyes grow bright 
as they rest upon it. Not for one moment does she hesi- 
tate. She forms her purpose on the spot, nor falters in 
the fulfilling of it. All is fair in love and war, and surely 
it has been war for many a month between this woman and 
her. Taking up a pair of scissors lying on the table near, 
she cuts deliberately the silken cord, and possessing herself 
of the key leaves the room. 

Not once does her heart fail her. And when she stands 
before madame ^s door and fits the key into the lock, and 
throws it open, and at last crosses the threshold of the for- 
bidden chambers, no sense of fear, no desire to draw back 
whilst yet there is time, oppresses her, only a longing to 
solve the problem that for so many days has been an insult 
to her. Surely, as it seems to her, the right is on her side. 
As an outraged wife, she takes her stand. He — Branks- 
iiu :‘e~ hiid co?r »c1Ird her to return to his roof,* had cut 
"roiii liei foot the sweet revenge she had so care- 

luiiy prepared, j' iled her effort to escape, by which not 


312 


LADY BKAlfKSMEEB. 


only her, but his, freedom might have been secured, and 
now — Well, now let him look to it. If he has insisted 
upon her return, and forced her to occupy the position of 
head of his house, she will exercise the powers given, and 
refuse to permit within her house apartments denied to 
her. 

She throws up her head, and it is with a sense of positive 
triumph that she steps into the first room and looks around 
her. 

A charming room, delicately but simply furnished. An 
easel in one corner, a few water-colors lying loosely upon 
the tables, and a low lounge, covered with a dainty cre- 
tonne; a Valerie jar or two, and a Dresden bowl, made 
sweet with flowers; a few Indian mats. A little breeze 
that comes through the open windows wafts to and fro the 
soft white curtains. Upon the hearth a gently smolder- 
ing fire. Altogether it is a restful room, that speaks of a 
mind at peace with all the world. 

Muriel takes it in at a glance, and hastens toward the 
door opposite to the one she has entered. It leads to a 
room, small, and evidently meant as a mere passage from 
the room left to the one beyond, the door of which is par- 
tially open. Muriel has half crossed this ante-chamber, 
when a soft musical sound, coming apparently from some 
place near at hand, causes her to stand sfcill. The voice of 
one singing. Yet hardly singing, either. There is not 
sufficient coherence about it to let such a term be applied 
to it; it is rather a low harmonious crooning that breaks 
upon her ear. The sound is sweet, and pathetic, and 
young ! 

MurieTs heart begins to beat tumultuously. A voice 
here, a woman ^s voice, and Mme. von Thirsk asleep down- 
stairs! What can this mean? Is she on the brink of the 
discovery of some mystery that hitherto has come to her, 
vaguely indeed, and never in such a guise as this? Who is 
this singer? She pushes open the half-closed door, and 
steps lightly into the room. 

At the far end of it, seated on a yrie-dieu, with her lap 
full of flowers, sits a girl — a pale, slender girl — dressed all 
in white. There is not an atom of color about her any- 
where, and her face, which is a fine oval one, is, if -"(ossilnc- 
more colorless than her gown. Her eyes are lownoi!, and 
she is playing in a curiously absent way with the blossoms 


LADT BKANKSMERE. 


31 ^ 

amongst which her fingers are straying aimlessly, and is 
singing to them in that strange monotone that had startled 
Muriel. 

Now she looks up — some instinct that tells her some one 
is watching, making her senses keen. She stares straight 
at Muriel, and her eyes are a revelation. They are blue, 
but such an unearthly blue, and what is the cold dull gleam 
in them? And are they looking at Muriel, or at some ob- 
ject beyond her? Her fingers still play idly amongst the 
flowers, whilst these strange eyes of hers are wandering 
vaguely. 

Come in, come in,^^ she murmurs eagerly, so eagerly 
that Muriel ponders within herself as to whether she and 
this white, smiling girl may not have met before under 
different circumstances. That she betrays no agitation, 
no awkwardness at thus coming face to face with the host- 
ess who has not invited her to her house, is strange indeed. 
She is looking unconcernedly at Muriel, with a smile upon 
her lips — a soft, yet stereotyped smile that is rather un- 
pleasant. 

Has she ever met her before? Surely she must have 
done so, so utterly without surprise, so friendly is the 
greeting she accords her. And then that expression about 
the mouth — shadowy, but yet like who — is it like? 

“More; have you brought more?'^ asks the pale girl 
anxiously, leaning forward, the eternal smile still upon her 
face. It seems to Muriel that she would be almost more 
than beautiful but for the nameless something that mars 
her expression. “ I havenH nearly enough, she goes on 
confidentially; “ see, it is quite a poor show yet.^"’ 

She waves her hand about the roon; blithely, but in a 
rather disconnected way, and Lady Branksmere following 
her gesticulations, sees that the apartment is literally 
crowded with flowers, of all kinds and all hues, save one. 
No crimson, red, or scarlet blossom lies among them. 

She brings back her glance again to the girl, and now 
regarding her more fixedly, perceives that the face is not so 
young as she had at first imagined. A little shudder passes 
over her as she meets the stranger ^s more direct gaze, and 
sees that- she has risen and is coming toward her. Her 
"^cnce is half -exultant, half-cunning. She creeps closer 
L .viuriel and whispers slyly, 

“ Do you know whose birthday it is?^^ 


814 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


No/ Mil a frozen tone. 

“No? Why it is his! That is why the flowers are 
here, the flowers he loves so well.^^ Muriel stares at her. 
BranksmereM passion for flowers had not come beneath her 
notice. “ By and by for dinner — we dine late, he and I — 
I shall be decked with them. He likes to see me so. His 
heart^s-ease, as he calls me. A pretty name, eh?^^ 

She is running her Angers up and down Muriers arm as 
she speaks, with a slow, lingering touch. Lady Branks- 
mere abruptly moves beyond her reach. 

“ He dines with you!^^ she repeats in a voice of disgust. 
Then, icily, “ Do you know who I am? Whose house 
this is.^^^ 

“ His,^^ says the girl absently. “Oh! yes, he will come 
to-night. Sometimes, dropping her voice, “he can not 
come, because there is some one below, pointing to the 
ground, “ who keeps him, holds him, chains him, so that 
he dare not come. But soon she will be gone; Theklasays 
so.^^ 

“Who is he? Of whom are you speaking ?^^ asks 
Muriel. Her tone is so harsh, so strained, that even to 
herself it is hardly recognizable. 

‘ ‘ Do you not know him, then ? Look, you shall see him. ^ * 
She points to a distant table, where Muriel, who is feeling 
sick and cold, sees a large cabinet photograph of — ^her hus- 
band! She knows it well — its fellow lies in one of the 
albums down-stairs. 

“He will come to-night?^ ^ she asks faintly, looking at 
the girl, whose face is no whiter than her own. 

“ To-night, yes. It is his festival, see you, and we shall 
keep it merrily! Listen 1^^ She holds up one forefinger, 
and advances upon Muriel, nay, actually presses upon her 
in her eagerness, as Muriel instinctively recoils with horror 
from her touch. “ If you wish it, you shall be invited 
too! Ifll get him to ask you; he refuses me nothing, but 
donT let Thekla know. Thekla, little cat! She would 
keep me an eternal prisoner liere, bu^he is on my side, 
and you may rely upon his aid in getting you here.'’^ She 
laughs gleefully,- and again clasps her hands, “ We shall 
outwit her, she cries. 

“ We?’^ 

“Ay. You and I and he, and — She pau 
confused, and then goes on: “ You will have ren ^ > 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 315 

she whispers confidentially, “ that she has grown very 
stupid of late/^ 

Who has grown stupid 

“ Why, Thekla. No,^^ impatiently, we won^t have 
her. You are new, fresh, strange. He likes strange faces, 
and we shall coax him so, eh?^ ^ 

‘‘ What is Branksmere to you?^^ cries Muriel sharply. 
Do you not even know that? Have they not told you? 
Why — my husband !” returns the stranger, with a peculiar 
little jerky wave of her hand. A low cry breaks from 
Muriel. She staggers backward, and puts out her arms 
as though to ward, off some more advancing horror. 
“ To-night, to-night you shall be made known to him!^^ 
goes on the girl lightly. “ But Thekla! Why, she can 
stay — 23ointing to a small door, covered by a silken cur- 
tain, that up to this has escaped MurieFs notice — ‘‘ with 
the old witch in there Again the unmeaning smile 
widens her lips. “ They^ll be fine company for each 
other, eh?^^ 

She laughs. To her dying day Lady Branksmere never 
forgets that laugh. It rings through the room, yet where 
is the mirth in it? Oh! the terrible discordancy of it, the 
dearth of merriment in the eyes, the open, gaping mouth! 
^^You will come, you pale thing !'’^ she asks, eagerly, 
and we^ll sing to him, you and I. Say, is it? — 

Beauty sat bathing by a spring, 

Where fairest shades did hide her. 

Hey, nonny, nonny 01 
Hey, nonny, nonny!” 

Her voice now is slightly raised, her manner excited. And 
wefil dance, too,^^ she cries, catching up her skirts with 
both hands. Sing hey! Sing ho! Hey, nonny, nonny, 0!^^ 
She lifts her feet one by one in a jerky fashion, and sways 
to and fro in a very ecstasy of delight. 

Join in — join in!^^ she calls to Muriel, and sways more 
eagerly, and twirls herself round and round with a terrible 
speed, and laughs again. A wild laughter this time, that 
ends in a wilder shriek. 

Lady Branksmere, utterly unnerved, makes a movement 
toward the door. IJnhappily her fiight conveys the idea 
that she is afraid. The girl springs after her, clutches at 
her gown, and clings to it. A most horrible glare has come 


316 


IjADY beanksmeee. 


into her eyes. Muriel shrinks from her, and, as she does 
so, a large hunch of crimson ribbons, lying hidden amongst 
the folds of the tea-green gown she is wearing, is brought 
conspicuously into view, and strikes upon the sight of the 
stranger, and then — it is all over! 

In a second — with one spring^ she is upon Muriel, her 
fingers round her throat, her eyes ablaze, the demon Mad- 
ness wide awake! The fair, soft, childish face of a moment 
since is now transfigured — distorted beyond recognition, 
and the lips, purple and widely parted, are quivering with 
a rage that knows no reason! 

Shriek upon shriek rends the air! Great Heaven! Even 
at this awful moment, when her breath is fast failing her, 
beneath the clutch of the maniac^’s fingers, and when those 
wild glaring [eyes are gazing into hers, Muriel remembers 
that terrible cry, and once again imagines herself to be 
upon that luckless corridor at midnight. 

Again and again that awful yell rises, growing fiercer as 
time goes on! Not all the padding on the doors can stifle 
it! Closer and closer the mad woman^s arms clasp Muriel 
in that deadly embrace, until at last, with a faint groan, 
her victim ceases to struggle, and with a sigh her head falls 
backward. 

There is a crash — a groan — ! 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

Death is the liberator of him whom freedom can not release, the 
physician of him whom medicine can not cure, and the comforter 
of him whom time can not console! 

The touch of cold water upon her brow, a struggle with 
memory, and Muriel once more opening her eyes looks 
languidly around. Everything has come back to her. She 
remembers that last horrible scene, and wonders vaguely 
how it is she is now alive and in her own room, with Bridg- 
man bending over her. Has Branksmere heard of it.^ And 
if so, why — 

Her eyes meet those of her maid, who is gazing solicit- 
ously at her, and sinking back again amongst her pillows, 
she looks at her inquiringly. A¥as it Bridgman who had 
come to the rescue? Is the secret at last betrayed to the 
household? What does this woman know? 


LADY BRANKSMEBE. 


317 


fainted, Bridgman?^" 

Yes, my lady, but you are better now. You must not 
try to think yet awhile, but Just lie_quiet and let me bathe 
your head.'’^ 

Did — yoii find me?^^ 

Oh ! no, my lady, you must have been gone off in quite 
a dead sort of way for a long time before I was called. I 
■^eard the bell ringing violently, and I ran upstairs to find 
you lying on the lounge in my lord^s arms, for all the world 
as if you were dead. ‘ Good '’evings,'’ says I, ^ what's come 
to my lady?' and then he Just waited to see how you were, 
my lady, and when you gave signs of coming to your breath 
again, he had to run away to her ladyship the dowager, he 
said." 

So! He had thrown her over upon her maid's tender 
mercies. Hour after hour had gone by and he had not re- 
turned, even to inquire how she was. It was half-past 
three then; it must now be quite six o'clock. Judging by 
the darkness without, and the . drawn curtains and the 
lighted lamps, yet up to this he had studiously absented 
himself. On the very first opportunity he had left her, 
and hastened back to — She shudders. Oh! what terrible 
link binds him to that unfortunate creature? 

Her ladyship is worse, then?" she asks, faintly, keep- 
ing up the fiction. 

Yes, my lady, much worse. Hot expected to recover, 
I 'ear. Her screams was hawful awhile ago. Quite un- 
earthly, as I'm told." 

The dowager's screams. Muriel almost smiles. How 
plain it all is to her now. She shivers nervously. 

^‘^You are feeling ill again, my lady," says Bridgman 
anxiously, who is very fond of her. ^^My lord said you 
were to take this brandy, if possible, and said, too, he'd 
be back as soon as he could. Do now try to take it, mv 
lady." 

I want nothing— nothing," returns Muriel, impatiently: 
only to be alone. Go, Bridgman, go. I can not rest 
with any one near me." 

But, my lady— " 

I promise I shall ring for you if I feel weaker," says 
Muriel, gently. How go, my good Bridgman. Ah — " 
She starts and makes an effort to rise to her feet, as 
Branksmere enters the room, even as the maid leaves it. 


318 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 


Pale as Muriel was before, she is now ghastly as she 
confronts her husband. As for him there seems to be but 
one thought in her mind. He comes up to her, his brows 
contracted, and seizing her by the arm turns her to the 
nearest lamp. 

You are safe, unhurt, he mutters, scanning her with 
eyes that would seek to rend concealment from her. So 
open, so terribly real is his anxiety, that it should have 
touched her — but she remains cold and unmoved. She 
even withdraws herself from his grasp as though it is hate- 
ful to her, and goes away from him a step or two. 

She might have killed you," he says in a low tone. 
He looks white and haggard and is trembling in every 
limb. What possessed you to enter that room?" 

If you expect me to apologize for my intrusion there, 
you will be disappointed," returns she slowly. I see no 
reason why I, as mistress of this house, should not enter 
any apartment in it." Even as she speaks she remembers 
how by her own act, some time since, she had forfeited all 
right to any claim upon this household, and the hot blood 
mounting to her head almost chokes her. But he appears 
to notice nothing. 

When I found you there," he goes on, in her grasp 
— Mrs. Brooks was quite unable to drag her off you — I 
thought, I feared — " He shudders violently. 

I beg you will no longer distress yourself about me," 
says Muriel, curtly; am well, uninjured. All I now 
require," regarding him steadily, ^^is an explanation." 

He pauses, he is about to reply, when — 

^^You shall have it," exclaims a voice from the door- 
way, where Mme. von Thirsk stands, pale and wild, her 
arms folded upon her breast. Follow me!" she says; 
and as if impelled to obey her command Muriel moves 
mechanically forward, and with Branksmere pursues her 
way once more to the ill-fated room that had been so full 
of danger for her. 

Standing just inside it, Branksmere pauses. 

She is better?" he asks anxiously, addressing madame, 
who had preceded them with a lighted taper in her cold 
hand. 

Better?" She regards him mournfully, and yet as one 
who barely understands. Ay! she is better." 

And — and sane?^^ questions Branksmere in a subdued 


LABT BRAKKSMEKE. 


319 


voice. There is no fear of a further shock for — He 
hesitates, he is evidently full of fears for — Muriel. Mme. 
von Thirsk, with a cry of anguish, flings her arms sudden- 
ly above her head. 

Sane! Man, she is dead she cries in piercing accents. 
She darts forward, and flinging back a heavy curtain lays 
wide an alcove, where upon a bed lies stretched in all the 
majesty of death, a pale, still form. Tall candles are 
burning at the head and foot of the bed; from some flowers, 
scattered upon the coverlet, a faint, oppressively sweet odor 
is Ailing the room. Muriel, spell-bound, gazes at the 
silent figure; it is the body of her who a few hours since 
had been so full of a giant strength. And yet now — how 
low she lies! how motionless! At last the poor, tired brain 
has gained its rest, and that an eternal one! She is indeed 
dead! And yet 

“ Her mind, now vested with its garb of light, 

Shines all the brighter for its former toil.” 

There is a serenity about the face of the lifeless girl, that 
in its earlier days had seldom rested there. 

Muriel falls upon her knees and covers her face with her 
hands. 

‘^Dead!^^ breathes Branksmere. Great Heaven, since 
when?^' 

Almost as you left her last the change came. She was 
exhausted and quiet then, but as the door closed on you 
she cried aloud to me to bring a light. The room was 
flooded with light, so I knew what that meant. In a little 
while she dropped back dead! Dead!^^ She sways herself 
to and fro. Oh! oh!” she moans, and seems as though 
she would have broken into loud lamentations, but slie 
checks herself violently, and, clinching her hands, looks 
with a terrible despair in her glance at the quiet figure 
stretched upon the bed in that grand complacency that be- 
longs to death alone. She is gazing upon all that belongs 
to her upon earth — cold, dull earth itself now soon to 
Mother Earth to be returned. 

You want an explanation,” she says in a hard voice, 
addressing Lady Branksmere, about her? Well, you 
shall have it. ” 

^^She was — ” ventures Muriel, with trembling lips. 

My sister — the one thing left me that I might love!” 


320 


LADY BEAKKSMERE, 


She checks herself. The emotion dies from her. To the 
poiiit/^ she says. ^^You are wondering at her presence 
here; you shall learn how it was. She/'’ pointing to the 
dead girl, ^^was the mistress of your husband^s brother!’'’ 

A smothered ejaculation breaks from Lord Branksmere. 
He makes a gesture as though he would speak, but madame 
suppresses him. 

The truth, the truth, Branksmere — let us have the 
truth at last,” she cries wildly. The anguish of her face 
is miserable. Listen to me,'” she goes on hurriedly, 
speaking to Muriel, she loved the late Lord Branksmere, 
and he loved her, but marriage between them was impos- 
sible because of his previous marriage with Lady Anne. 

Muriel unclasps her hands from before her face, and 
looks up startled. 

You know that he was killed in a duel,'’'’ goes on ma- 
dame, in a dull, monotonous tone. You do not know 
who killed him. It was my brother, her brother. For our 
honor’s sake he slew her lover — too late ! The news of his 
death came to her abruptly. She — ” for the first time 
madame falters — was not very strong at the time, and 
the shock destroyed her brain 1” 

Spare yourself!” implores Branksmere in a whisper. 

Let me explain the rest. ” 

I have promised Lady Branksmere the recital of this 
merry tale,” returns madame, rigidly, and I shall keep 
my promise. Hear the end,” addressing Muriel. ^^Alas! 
no,” sharply, ^‘'the end you see, but what there remains 
for me to tell. To please his dying brother, and to con- 
ceal my unhappy sister from the vengeance of our family, 
your husband consented to bring her here secretly; no one 
knew of her coming, save Brooks, Lord Branksmere, and 
Madame the Dowager, to whom the murdered man was in- 
expressibly dear. Here she has lived — unknown; here 
died. It is all! Her tale is finished.” She makes a mel- 
ancholy motion -toward the bed. If in her life she ignor- 
antly caused you pain, you can now rejoice in that she is 
dead.” 

Her tone is bitterness itself, and the glance she cast at 
Muriel, full of undiminished hati'ed. Lady Branksmere 
shudders. She had been calm, but now drops into a chair 
with an exclamation of horror. 

Oh, no; not that,” she^breathes, faintly, ' ' 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


331 


Branksmere regards her keenly. 

This is too much for her/^ he says, speaking rapidly to 
madame. ^‘Let no more be said at present. You can 
have any further explanation later on. 

shall have no opportunity,^^ returns she, sullenly. 

Nor is there anything more that I would say. All now 
is at an end. Her eyes fasten on Branksmere^s hand as it 
rests upon the back of his wife^s chair. Yes,'’^ she re- 
peats, brokenly, ^^all indeed is at an end. 

Oome,^’ says Branksmere, leaning anxiously over Mu- 
riel, whose beautiful face looks ghastly. He had apparent- 
ly forgotten all but her. As in a dream she rises to her 
feet, and with a long, long sigh moves toward the door, 
he following. Madame, seeing him thus leaving her-fo?'- 
ever as it seems to her now — without so much as one re- 
gret, one kindly glance, feels as though her heart is being 
torn from her body. She puts up one hand as if to still 
the throbbing of her throat; she makes a swift movement 
as if to overtake him; her lissome figure sways to and fro, 
through the intensity of its emotion, and then words break 
from her. 

A word, Branksmere!” she cries hoarsely. One word! 
It is my last! I leave this house within an hour or two, 
never to return; spare me then a moment, if only in memo- 
ry of the past. ” 

My dear Thekla, why do you speak to me like this?” 
asks Lord Branksmere, reproachfully. ‘^My time is yours 
when 1 have seen Lady Branksmere to her room. ” 

Stung for his openly expressed concern for his wife, 
madame recovers her composure. 

‘^^Nay,” she says coldly, ^^it is of no consequence. After 
all, what word is left for me now except farewell?” 

'^Many, I hope,” very kindly. 

Not one. I leave this place to-morrow morning, with 
—her.” 

So soon?^^ questions Branksmere, with an ex2:)ressive 
glance at the curtain behind which that quiet body rests, 
surrounded by light. 

Ay, at once, at once,” returns she, with an impatient 
gesture. ^^Oh, to be gone!” She conquers herself pre- 
' “"There must be no scandal, Branksmere,” she 

muit iurs feverishly. “All must be done in secret. I 
wd' have no word spoken against her, either alive or dead. 


322 


LADY BEAKKSMERE. 


I depend upon you to so manage this last office for her, as 
you have managed everything else. Get us back to our 
old home in France, I do beseech you, without the truth 
being made manifest/^ 

You may rely upon me,^^ gently. 

Ah, when have I not relied upon you!” cries she, with 
a swift wild outburst of grief that is terrible. 

But I would have you spare yourself,” says Branks- 
mere tenderly. ^^That poor soul” — he bends his head 
reverently — ^^her body must be removed from this with 
the daylight, and I shall go with it. But you — so over- 
burdened and crushed with sorrow as you are — ^you must 
stay on here for a while at least. ” His voice is full of the 
deepest commiseration, and he turns his glance impul- 
sively upon Muriel as though imploring from her a friend- 
ly word. Muriel, who is not ungenerous, responds to it. 

I entreat, madame, that you will remain here,” she 
says hastily, lest the good impulse fail her. ^^Vhy should 
you leave now — now, when your grief is so terribly fresh to 
you?” 

thank you,” replies madame, icily, turning to fix 
upon her a glance full of undisguised abhorrence, thank 
you for the first kindly word you have accorded me since 
the commencement of our most distasteful acquaintance. 
Now, on the eve of its termination, I thank you for it.” 

Lady Branksmere flushes. 

‘^In spite of all you have said, madame, I still beg you 
will consider my house your home for the present. ” 

Your house could never be my home,” returns madame 
slowly. 

Lady Branksmere, with a slight bow, quits the apartment. 
As she gains her own room, her husband, who has followed 
her, checks her progress. 

I can not enter into matters now,” he says, gravely. 

As you will have comprehended, I shall have much to do 
about — the removal of the body — before morning. I shall, 
of course, go to France with it, and see it interred. Then 
I shall return, to give you any further explanation that 
may seem necessary.” 

‘ ^ When will you return?” asks she, languidly, with down- 
cast lids. 

On Saturday, I hope, by the last train. I shall here- 
by ten o’clock. Will that be too late for you t<> receiv-'j? me? 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


323 


I am anxious, now that the seal of secrecy has been 
broken and my promise to the dead at an end, to tell you 
everything/^ 

It scarcely seems worth while,” she says, still more in- 
differently. 

To me it does. Will you see me when I arrive?” 

Yes. ” She turns from him with slow, tired footsteps, 
and, entering the room, closes the door behind her. This 
is her farewell to him. Branksmere thus unceremoniously 
left outside in the corridor, frowns darkly, and with an 
angry exclamation, strides back to the chamber of death. 


CHAPTEK XLVIIL 

He whom passion rules is bent to meet his death. 

Nevertheless, as he re-enters the Castle to-night — 
Saturday — his first thought is for her. He mounts the 
staircase quickly, and knocking at her door responds eager- 
ly to her permission to enter. He can see at a glance that 
she is looking extremely ill, white and listless, and with 
heavy purple shadows beneath her large gray eyes. The 
slender hands, lying languidly upon her lap, look tired and 
powerless, the blue veins standing out upon the backs of 
them in thin pale cords. There is a suspicion of mental 
fatigue about her whole bearing — of a strain — a painfully 
suppressed nervousness — very trying, that is evidently tell- 
ing terribly on her strength. She is dressed in a simple 
white gown, with a knot of ribbon at her throat, and her 
hair is bound at the back in a loose fashion, that also be- 
speaks weariness. She is lying back in her chair, and there 
is enough weakness in her attitude to appeal to his sense 
of pity very keenly. 

You are ill?^^ he says abruptly, when she has given him 
her hand with an evident effort. 

little. Yes. But it it merely because sleep has 
failed me for a night or two. ” 

“ Has Margery been staying with you?” 

No. I would have nobody, though she wished to re- 
main witlr me when here this morning. ” 

You should not have been alone after all you went 
through,” says Branksmere impatiently. 


324 LADY BRANKSI^IERE. 

am accustomed to be alone^'^^re turns she, dryly. 
Branksmere looks as thoug^he would have answered 
this, but checks himself. a long silence, and then, 

as though following out a tri^in of thought, he says, slowly. 

I waited to see her buried. It was the last thing I 
could do for her, whose fortunes were so unfortunately 
mixed up with our family. Madame von Thirsk gave you 
an outline of her story; I am here to fill up the blanks. I 
own that I have wronged you in keeping secret from you 
her existence here, but my promise to the dead bound me to 
silence. 

To the dead?” 

To my brother,” gravely. It is a long story and a 
sad one. It is more,” exclaims Branksmere, with a sudden 
vehemence, it is a shameful one ! Not so far as she is 
concerned. I would have you understand that. I — I have 
reason to know that she never knew of Anne; that he had 
concealed from her all knowledge of his marriage, and that 
some ceremony had been gone through between him and 
Adela Braemar that had satisfied her, and betrayed her 
into believing herself his wife. She -never knew the truth , 
for that, at least, I am grateful. Death seized on him, and 
madness overtook her, before it was discovered!” 

^^But her presence here?” 

That, I admit, was an unpardonable folly. An action 
I have had reason to regret many a day since. I might 
easily have found for her a shelter in some other place, but 
just then I was confused, horrified, and could think of noth- 
ing but the fact that my brother had confided her to my 
care. And, after all,” says Baranksmere, with decision, 
I donT believe that I do regret it, save in what it has 
made you suffer; or rather” — correcting himself — ^'be- 
• cause of the inconvenience it has caused you. ” 

To this Muriel makes no reply, though perhaps he had 
expected one, as he paused before going on again. 

^^I was in Munich at the time; my brother (Lord 
Branksmere then) in Potsdam. A telegram received by 
me arrived too late to prevent any interference on my part, 
even supposing it could have done any good, which it cer- 
tainly would not. Using all the speed I could, I only ar- 
rived upon the fatal field as the first shot was being 
exchanged between Branksmere and Adela Braemar’s 
brother; who had learned by chance the actual truth, and 


LADY BRANKSMER-R. 


325 


knew the dishonor of his sister. I sprung forward only 
to receive the body of my brother as he sunk insensible into 
my arms. He was mortally wounded.” 

^^But not dead?” cries Muriel faintly. 

Not dead, no! He lived long enough to confess all to 
me, and to implore me to succor the girl he had so cruelly 
wronged, but so deeply loved. He gained my promise not 
only to succor her, but to shield her from the vengeance of 
her family, who had openly declared their intention to take 
her life. With her Wood they would wipe out both her 
name and her disgrace from otf the face of the earth. They 
were a wild, lawless race, and it is probable they meant to 
keep their word.” 

MurieTs face has grown like marble; so cold, so still. 
The word disgrace is ringing through her brain. That 
poor soul! it had come to her most innocently, but what 
should be said of one who — 

He made me swear I would befriend her for his sake, 
and that I would never betray her secret. I gave my oath 
as he desired. I swore it to the dying. Yet there was a 
time when for your sake I would have broken even that 
solemn covenant, believing he would not have had me keep 
it to the destruction of my own happiness.” He sighs 
heavily. ^^It is too late now, however, to lament over 
that. ” He looks at her intently. 

Go on,” she says, with lowered brow and lips com- 
pressed. 

^^He died in my arms! There was some small comfort 
for me in the thought that my presence had soothed him 
in his last moments, and that he had died satisfied that I 
would befriend the woman he loved. At the end he bade 
me hasten to her and prepare her for the awful news that 
awaited her. But his voice had grown thick and indis- 
tinct, and I suppose I misunderstood what he said, because 
I went first to the wrong house, and when at last I gamed 
the right address, I found the body had been brought 
home before me, and that by some unlucky chance the 
poor girl had met the bearers face to face, and that, in 
fact, the dead man — her lover, her husband, as she be- 
lieved — had been laid almost at her feet. ” 

Lady Branksmere raises both hands to the side of her 
head, as though to shut out the horrible scene, but no 
word escapes her. 


320 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


I shall never forget that moment! Adela in her white 
gown; the dead man covered with blood; the brilliant 
sunshine; the silence of the bearers, and through all the 
gay, terrible laughter of some children playing in the gar- 
dens below. The girl said nothing, but she went slowly 
up to him, and bending down, laid her cold fingers on his 
colder brow. ^ Why, how is this, sweetheart?^ she said. It 
was an odd little speech, wasnT it? There was really noth- 
ing in it, and yet I shall never forget it. I can hear it 
always. It thrilled through the room. The very men 
ceased to breathe as they listened. It was something in 
her voice, her manner, and the cruel stillness of her. She 
seemed to comprehend so poorly, and yet her comprehen- 
sion was so complete — so fearful in its consequences! As 
she leaned over him some drops of his life-blood, warm and 
red, fell upon her white gown. She burst out laughing 
then, and called to us to see how pretty they were. It was 
an awful scene.” 

His voice has sunk very low; it now ceases altogether. 
He seems to be falling into a sort of reverie, when a gest- 
ure from Muriel brings him back to the present. 

There is more?” she questions feverishly. 

You shall hear it.” He turns away abrubtly, and go- 
ing to the window pushes back the curtains, and gazes out 
into the blackness of the night beyond. That night her 
child was born!^^ 

Muriel, with a sharp exclamation, lets her fan slip .from 
her to the ground. 

“ That night, too, it died — happily! The mother^s mind 
died with it, but her body lived. Poor girl, her heart was 
broken; it was merciful that memory was taken from 
her.” 

Was there no return? No vague remembrance?” 

None! After awhile strange fancies grew within her. 
I bore a strong resemblance to my brother, and soon she 
grew to connect me with him in some dull 'way, and later 
on believed me to be indeed the Branksmere she had known 
and loved. I alone could console her in her bursts of un- 
meaning grief. I alone could control her by a word — a look 
— when she fell a prey to the violence that at times over- 
came her. That evening when you ventured into her 
room, had they not called me hastily, I dp not know what 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 327 

would have been the result. She was more violent then 
than I had ever seen her. ” 

It was the fact of my being a stranger — ” 

No. It was the red ribbons on your gown. Ever 
since that fatal morning when the blood of her lover dyed 
her dress, it has been impossible to let her see anything 
even approaching that color. The demon was raging with- 
in her when I entered, her hands were on your throat. Mrs. 
Brooks, with all her strength, could not sway her one inch, 
from you. But when she saw me she grew calmer at once, 
and rose to her feet and came to me as a child might 
come who knew itself in some disgrace, yet knew itself be- 
loved." 

Was Mrs. Brooks the only one there? I have a con- 
fused idea that — " Lady Branksmere hesitates ahd 
frowns slightly, as one might to whom remembrance is 
difficult. 

A correct one. Yes, Madame von Thirsk was there. 
It appears she had arrived on the scene before Mrs. Brooks 
knew anything of the matter, but was either too horrified 
or too frightened to give the alarm. Mrs. Brooks provi- 
dentially came in with a message from my grandmother, or 
else all Thekla^s infiuence might have been powerless to 
save you. " 

He brushes his hand across his forehead, and draws his 
breath heavily, but Muriel is too lost in a new thought to 
heed him. So! madame had been there, and had been too 
frightened to call for assistance! Too horrified to try to 
save her from a cruel death! Death! Ah, there lay the 
charm of it. To see her indeed dead, madame would wil- 
lingly have imperilled her very soul ! A sensation of sick- 
ness creeps over Muriel, and compels her to lean back in 
her chair and gasp for breath. Oh, the blessedness of the 
relief that follows on the recollection that that murderess 
has left the house. She had stood by, ivaiting for the life 
to leave her; had perhaps excited the wretched maniac; had 
gloated in the thought that soon her enemy would be be- 
yond recall; had watched her struggles and laughed at her 
efforts to free herself. Oh! 

A wild cry breaks from her. She starts to her feet, and 
throws out her arms as if to ward off some fearful thing. 

What is it?" exclaims Branksmere anxiously. 

Nothing! Nothing!" She has subsided into her chair 


328 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


again, and has covered her face with her hands. Only 
some horrible thought!” 

You have listened too long to such an unhappy story,” 
declares Branksmere. Some other time I can finish — ” 
No; let it be ended now, forever. There is one thing 
I want to know. She spoke of flowers — a festival — ” 

It was the anniversary of Arthur s birthday. She al- 
ways remembered that, whatever else might be forgotten. 
For months before, she would question us as to the exact 
day — waiting and longing to do honor to it. He had a 
passion for flowers, and to please him she would have the 
apartments that belonged to her decorated with them on 
that and her wedding-day. Poor thing! It was her de- 
hght to keep their rooms bright with them in the old days 
in Hungary. She was very gentle in her calm days, but 
when excited it was very difficult to manage her. She was 
indeed a great responsibility. ” 

You had not to undertake it alone, however. You had 
madame to help you. ” 

Yes. That was fortunate,” replies he, simply. She 
was devoted to Adela, and the poor afflicted girl clung to 
her in her more lucid moments. Thekla alone, and Brooks, 
kne^V of her being here. And madame^s avowed affection 
for my grandmother made a good pretext for her continued 
residence here — an affection amply returned by the Dow- 
ager. However, her presence made it impossible for me to 
spend much time at home. Nor did I care to live here un- 
til — I met you.” A mournful expression has come into 
his eyes. You asked me once if I had ever seen madame^s 
rooms, and I told you no. That was the truth. But I do 
not blame you for your disbelief. Evidence was very strong 
against me. How could I explain that the rooms belonged 
to Adela, that madame^s were on the other side of that 
wing? You little knew when you so harshly condemned me 
how sad a task was mine; to care for, to console, to govern 
that poor mad creature. ” 

Lady Branksmere presses her hand against her throat in 
a convulsive way, as if suffocating. 

It was easy enough to manage her when first she came 
here — at least so they told me. But lately the attacks of 
madness had grown more frequent, and her screams were 
horrible. They were unheard by the servants, fortunately, 
who all believe that corridor haunted apd never enter it. 


LADY BRAI^KSMERE. 329 

But you heard her? That night when I found your brace- 
let— 

He waits expectantly for a word from her, but none 
comes. Her back is turned to him, or he might perhaps 
have noticed the growing palor on her face. 

I would have spoken — he goes on in a low voice — I 
should have betray^ all then — but you gave me no oppor- 
tunity — you would not hear me.” 

It was too late!” Her voice is so faint as to be almost 
indistinct; with difficulty she conquers the sensation that 
threatens to sink her into insensibility. Was it for your 
oath^s sake you kept silence all that time?” 

For that — and for one other powerful reason. There 
was Anne! His wife! She knew nothing; she never so 
much as dreamed of her husband^s treachery. He and she 
were not, perhaps, altogether suited to each other. It was 
a marriage arranged by the two families — ^hers and ours; 
and no one for a moment pretended to believe it was a love- 
match. But outwardly they got on as well as the Avorld 
could expect, and, at least, she never knew of a rival, never 
heard of a reason why his memory should not be respected 
by her. His death helped to cover a multitude of faults 
with her, and I fear she has often thought me cold when I 
have not ardently responded to her kindly words spoken in 
praise of his memory. How could I destroy her faith? 
How lay bare his infidelity to her? How could I dare to 
wound that gentle heart? Was / to be the one to teach her 
to despise my brother?” 

He has grown agitated, and ceases somewhat abruptly. 
Muriel, motionless, staring before her with wide eyes, is 
lost in a labyrinth of miserable suspicion. That story he 
has just revealed to her — was it purposely told? What 
has this vile tale to do jvith her that it so clings to her 
brain? A woman shamed — a woman lost! And yet this 
poor soul was more innocent than she — Muriel — who of 
her own free will would have accepted the shame and cut 
herself adrift from all things good. She interlaces hur 
fingers tightly and rising to her feet — heavily — because of 
the dull strange lethargy that is fast conquering her, turns 
her gaze on Branksmere. 

I have wronged you,” she cries feverishly — beyond 
forgiveness! That I know now! While you — you — ! 
Think, remember well, what it is I should be now but for 


330 


LADY ERAl^KSMEKE. 


you! A thing lost, degraded/^ She is growing terribly 
excited, and her eyes are like large coals of fire in her 
white face. I would have you remember well,’’ she re- 
peats again. And that it is of your wife such words may 
be used. Your wife, Branksmere. Think of it! That 
should make you harder. 

She has broken into dry sobs, and has turned aside to 
hide her face upon the arm that is leaning against the 
mantel-shelf. 

^‘^Hush!^^ exclaimes Branksmere sternly, but very 
anxiously, as he marks this growing agitation tliat is over- 
powering her. He has come within the light of the lamp 
nearest to her, and now, seeing her face, it horrifies him. 
Her lips are white, her eyes are those of the dead. Muriel 
— what is it?^^ he cries aloud. But even as he speaks she 
throws out her arms convulsively, sways heavily to and fro, 
and falls senseless to the ground. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

My melancholy haunts me eveiyv^here, 

And not one kindly gleam pierces the gloom 
Of my dark thoughts, to give a glimpse of comfort. 

The world is three weeks older to-day, and the events of 
that past night seem to have happened quite a long while 
ago. Three weeks, and as yet suspense and evil anticipa- 
tion are not at an end. They had lifted her from where she 
fell at Branksmere’s feet, and carried her to her bed, and 
Margery and Mrs. Billy had watched over her all through 
that long night of insensibility until the dawn came, and 
with it a glimmer of consciousness that died almost as it 
was born. 

In twenty-four hours she was in a raging fever. Her 
brain was affected, and it seemed to those closely investigat- 
ing the case — the great men from the town and the little 
men from the country round — that small, indeed, was the 
hope that could be entertained. 

All her lovely hair was shorn away. Her dry, parched 
lips made feverish the beholder. Her large eyes afiame 
with the fire that was inwardly consuming her, turned to 
each one a vacant glance, and from night to morn, and 
morn to night, she rolled her tired head unceasingly from 
side to side, calling always, always upon-^Mrs. Billy! 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


331 


No other being would satisfy her. Not even Margery, 
with her cool, sweet touch and her loving tenderness. It 
was ever for the sister, who was a stranger to her, that she 
called. Perhaps — for who can read the workings of a 
mind diseased? perhaps through all the sad riot of the 
maddening fever that played such havoc with her brain, 
she remembered that Mrs. Billy had been the one most 
instrumental in saving her from the miserable path into 
which a wild desire for revenge would have turned her; 
that she had been the one to make it impossible for her to 
step into the outer darkness. 

At times she would change her cry, and ask irritably for 
some members of her former home, but after Mrs. Billy, 
the person she most frequently desired, was Tommy Paulyii. 
If they had had the heart for laughter then, this would 
have amused them, but all was too sad, too terrible, with 
the shadow of death hanging over the house that might 
perhaps never again be ruled by its mistress. At such 
times as when she called upon him. Tommy was always 
forthcoming, and would sit beside her for hours together, 
with her poor, wasted hand that was too much bone now 
for the skin, and too transparent to be beautiful, held gen- 
tly between both his own. His cousins learned to be very 
fond of him at this time, and one cousin who shared his 
watches with him learned something more — the greatest 
knowledge of all. 

For Branksmere, his wife never asked. No faintest 
mention of him crossed her lips. Save for her desire for 
Mrs. Billy, her memory seemed to have gone back entirely 
to her earlier days, before the thought of other love than 
the home one, had entered her heart. She babbled of little 
trivial scenes and girlish gayeties that they had imagined 
long since forgotten by her; and would talk to, and scold 
and laugh at the twins as energetically as though they were 
really in her presence, and she back once more in the old 
school-room with them. But of Branksmere, nothing! 

He would steal in and out of her room all day long, and 
very often during the night, and stand looking down upon 
her, in silence, and apparently without emotion. The first 
day he had seen Tommy Paul3rn sitting with her hand in 
his, he had changed color slightly, and had left the room 
somewhat abruptly. But afterward he showed no sign of 
having been surprised or offended, and was indeed more 


332 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


attentive to Paulyn, and friendlier with him than he had 
ever been before. The wrapt way in which he would 
stand hstening to the idle words that fell from the parched 
lips, led Margery into the belief that he was hoping for 
some words that might apply to himself, and it grieved 
and distressed her beyond measure that such words never 
came. But perhaps had she known it, Branksmere^s 
anxiety had been of another order, and the pain he may 
.have felt at finding liimself ignored in her ravings, had 
been conquered by the passionate relief he knew in finding 
that the name most hated by him on earth was also absent 
from her hps. 

The loss of hope is cruel! For two whole days it slipped 
from them, and even now, to-day, when a little change 
for the better has been noticed and made much of, till 
they start and pale, and feel their hearts stop beating 
whenever a door is opened suddenly, believing it to be a 
message from one of the doctors desii’ing them to prepare 
for the last sad change of all. 

The weather, too, is dull and mournful, the rain drips 
from the eaves, and a sighing of the winds in the pine 
avenue makes itself felt. All through the sullen afternoon 
the misty snow-flakes melt upon Sie window-panes, and 
the rushmg breeze hurls itself against the casements in the 
turret chamber, where Muriel lies half slain by the giant 
enemy that had attacked her. The sounds of Nature enter 
the sick-room, in spite of all efforts to defeat them, and 
rouse the tired patient to a sense of life. 

Muriel, wide-eyed but silent, is lying in a weak prostra- 
tion upon her bed, one hand, damp and nerveless, toying 
feebly with the sheet. Upon the hearth-rug Margery and 
Mrs. Billy are conversing in low tones. The fire is burn- 
ing brightly, sending forth little cheerful noises with a vi- 
vacity hardly to be equaled. 

Yes, she is better, quite better," says Mrs. Billy, sud- 
denly addressing a tall figure standing in the door-way. 
‘‘ I guess shq^s mending at long last.'’"’ 

Branksmere with a slow step crosses the room, and, 
bending down, looks at the pale occupant of the bed. They 
are so accustomed to his ceaseless comings and goings that 
the Wo on the hearth-rug continue their conversation as 
though he had never entered. 

Looking, he can see for liimseK there is more of a steady 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


3a3 


light. ill the gray eyes than has been there for many a day. 
She half looks at him, then lets her lids fall heavily over 
the orbs beneath. Branksmere is fast losing himself in 
some gloomy reverie, when the sound of her weak voice 
coming to him across his dreamings, rouses him at once 
into sudden nervous life. He stoops over her. 

“ What is it I hear? Birds?"^ she asks feebly. 

In truth some melancholy robins have stationed them- 
selves under the drooping foliage that has covered the win- 
dow-sill outside, and their twitterings have apparently en- 
tered into her ear. 

“ Who feeds them now?” she asks in that strange slow 
way that a sickness nigh unto death has taught her. . Her 
eyes — ^grown frightfully large, are fixed on Branksmere ex- 
pectantly. Then all at once her glance grows troubled, 
and her breath comes and goes with a cruel haste and labor. 

“Oh! how it all comes back she cries faintly. Tears 
rise and fall over her cheeks. With a feeble effort she 
covers her face. The warm stinging drops wrung from 
her soul trickle down through her emaciated fingers, and 
lose themselves among the laces of her night-dress. 

“ Try to keep your mind from dwelling upon anything 
that worries you,” entreats Branksmere hurriedly, with 
all the sound but useless advice of a man, given at such a 
time. “ Try to forget— all. 

“ There is one thing I can not remember,^ ^ breathes she 
feebly. “ Do you know? Where is she? the woman who 
wanted to murder me?” 

Branksmere, troubled, takes her hand, and holds it fast. 

“Try to forget her,^^he says, believing she wanders, 
and fearing to let her mind revert to the stricken Adela. 
Muriel grows restless. 

“ I can not!” The words fall from her in a slow whisper 
one by one. “ She came into the room while that poor 
girl was trying to injure me, and she urged her with a 
laugh to kill me. I can see her now. I see her always. ” 

“She? Who?^^' He is somewhat struck by the ex- 
treme lucidity of her manner. 

“ Madame von Thirsk!” She turns her head with diffi- 
culty upon her pillow so as to face him, and speaks in a 
low jerky fashion, but with strange earnestness. Branks- 
mere grows deadly pale as he hears the name of madame. 
He h^ known truly of the enmity she bore his wife, he 


334 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 


knew, too, of the subdued but savage temper she had in- 
herit^, but that she should have longed for MurieFs 
death. It was too horrible for belief. Surely Muriel raves 
— and yet, the clear eye, the steady if weakly accents, the 
soiil that looks at him through every feature — ^is this rav- 
ing? 

‘‘ I saw her,^^ whispers Muriel, looking beyond him, as 
though addressing herself rather than him. “ She stood 
just there, as it were. I know the very spot; and she 
laughed and told that poor mad creature to haste and finish 
her work, calling out that I was an enemy of Arthur^s! 
Were they both mad? I had forgotten it all, but now it 
comes back to me. She stares with widening eyes over 
his shoulder, as though some vision beyond is displa 3 dng it' 
self to her. “ Ah, keep her away!^^ she cries suddenly, 
with a return of the old wildness, clutching convulsively at 
the satin coverlet. 

She shall .never again enter these doors. — never, 
never,^^ says Branksmere hurriedly, who is looking ghastly. 
He stoops to reassure her more entirely, but she has sunk 
back among her pillows into a quiescent state that is half 
sleep, half insensibility. She seems tired and worn, but in 
a minute or two she opens her eyes again and fixes them 
on him as though surprised. 

“ What are you doing here?'^ she asks, irritably. 

“ I came to see how you were going on.^^ 

“You are always coming. I have felt it through all. 
But why do you come noio 9 There is nothing more to 
expect. I am getting well. Other people can die; /caiiT.^^ 

The cruel innuendo he passes over in silence. 

“ That is good news,^^ he says; “ yes, I think you are 
better."’^ 

“You do your part admirably,^ ^ returns she, with a 
weak attempt at scorn. “ But you have been on duty long 
enough. I wish now,^^ her voice growing feebler, ‘ ‘ you 
would cease to consider all this attention so necessary. 

She turns from him as well as her poor weak strength 
will permit her, and he, deeply offended, steps into the 
background. He had loved her. Hoiv he had loved her! 
With all his heart he had given his heart to her, and now 
—now! There had been no half measures, no reserva- 
tions, his very whole soul had been given to her for this! 
A pity for himself — ^for the miserable being so cruelly de- 


LADY BRAl^KSMERE. 


335 


frauded by Fate of that for wliicli he had paid so heavy a 
price, possesses him at this moment, as he stands jnotion- 
less, despairing, his eyes on the ground. 

He had borne scorn, contempt, hatred; nay, he had for- 
given her that, for which most men would have spurned 
her, and yet — 

“ Are you there Her voice, faint and impatient, 
comes to him and rouses him from his miserable thoughts. 
Thinking she is calling for one of those who usually sit be- 
side her, he says gently: 

“ Is it Mrs. Daryl you waiit?^^ 

/ “ Is it— Paulyn?^^ 

“ Who is it, then?^^ 

“ Nobody, pettishly. She frowns, and then tears born 
of weakness spring to her eyes. “ I am so thirsty,^ ^ she 
moans miserably, “ and nobody will give me anything to 
drink. Nobody attends to me. Nobody cares whether I 
live or die. 

This most unjust accusation, once past her lips, touches 
her own sense of justice so keenly, that the poor tiling, re- 
penting of her wayward speech, falls a-cr3dng most bit- 
terly. She makes a feeble effort to push away the cooling 
drink he holds to her lips, but afterward, overcome by the 
craving for liquid of some sort to cool her burning throar, 
she drinks feverishly of that he gives her. 

She leans back exhausted; and presently begins to move 
her head restlessly from side to side. 

“lam so hot — so hot, she murmurs. Leaning over 
her he lifts the pillow on which she is lying with the hope 
of rendering her more comfortable. To do this he has to 
pass his arm beneath her neck, and before he can remove 
it she has fallen back in the exhausted sudden ’ slumber of 
one recovering from a wasting illness. Seeing she does not 
stir., he, too, remains motionless, and presently he sees she 
is indeed asleep. Afraid to move lest he shall wake her, 
he kneels beside the bed, and tries to believe there is no 
gladness for him in the knowledge that her head is resting 
so near his heart. 

Margery and Mrs. Billy at an early stage of the proceed- 
ings h^ deliberately turned their backs upon the bed, so ' 
that for quite an hour Branksmere kneels there watching 


336 


LADY BRANKSMEEE. 


his wife^s slumbers undisturbed. Once indeed Mrs. Billy 
had come up to him to whisper some unnecessary caution, 
but in reality to shp a cushion beneath his knees, and after 
that she and Margery had gone away, leaving him alone 
with Muriel. When they return it is to find he, too, has 
fallen asleep. His head is resting on the pillow. Upon 
his dark laSies lie the traces of tears. 


CHAPTER L. 

I’ve wronged thee much, and Heaven has well avenged; 

* * ■5t * * * * 

Will no remorse, will no decay, 

O memoiyl soothe thee into peace? 
****** * 

“ Not heard it?^^ says Lord Primrose, “ why bless me, I 
thought all the world knew it now. It^s to come off in the 
spring, and they are both as jolly as sand boys. YouM 
hardly know Halkett, he looks so altogether gay, and Mrs. 
Amyot has learned to blush. They were so long making 
up their minds that — no — no sugar thanks — not a scrap 
— I^m growing outrageously fat as it is — that people began 
to regard them as a sham. But after all, you see, they 
meant it. It will be the marriage of the season. 

Lady Anne Branksmere had come down to the Castle 
on the first word of MuriePs illness, to help Mrs. Billy and 
Margery in the nursing of her; Muriel having shown a 
strange impatience with the excellent hired nurse forwarded 
from town by one of the doctors. 

To have Lady Anne at the Castle means to have Lord 
Primrose too; his residence being situated on the borders 
of the neighboring county, about six miles from Branks- 
niere. Certainly he had been attentive hefore her arrival, 
had been most assiduous in his inquiries as to the way Lady 
Branksmere was going on, but when Lady Anne arrived 
upon the stage there was no knowing how often the 
ugly, pleasant, good-humored little man would not appear 
during the day. As regular as clock-work he dropped in 
in the afternoon — once Lady Branksmere was pronounced 
out of danger — presumably to ask for her,. but in reality to 
get his tea from Lady Anne’s fair, plump hands, and to 
sun himself in her kindly smiles. 


LADY BRAKKSMEEE. 


337 


’ To-day he is smiled upon, not only by her, but by 
Muriel, who is now brought down-stairs to the library every 
afternoon by Tommy Paulyn and Lady Anne, whose fine 
arms make light of such a burden. 

“You didn^t know, perhaps goes on Lord Primrose, 
“ that Mrs. Amyot is staying with us at present. The 
mater is fond of that frivolous little person. So-’m I, by 
the way. Lots of good in her, in my opinion. 

“ You would have made a bad judge, says Muriel, 
smiling faintly. “ Good in everything, is what you see. 

“ Don^’t make him vainer than he is,^^ entreats Lady 
Anne, with the purely friendly smile that always charms 
and exasperates him. “ By the bye, where is Mrs. 
Amyok’s shadow — Mrs. Vyner, I mean. ^ 

“ Oddly enough, in the neighborhood too;' or at least 
will be to-morrow. I met the Adairs, who told me she was 
coming to them for a few weeks. 

“ She^s grown awfully tired of the old colonel, I hear,'’^ 
says the Hon. Tommy, who happens to be present. 

“ Yes, by Jove. It appears she won^t take him any- 
where with her now. Ever since he fell in for the Bellair 
title she^s led liim no end of a life.^^ 

“ One would think she might be grateful for that small 
mercy. 

“ Siie isn% though. She has got the whip-hand over 
him in some unaccountable fashion, anti uses it unspar- 
ingly. She is worse to him than a dozen of those native 
regiments he used to storm about. '' 

“ Naturally,-’^ says Paulyn, ' as he hax:! the wli ip-hand 
over them, and used it unspjn ingly, too, as I have heard. 
Then he governed; now he is governed."^ 

“ Poor old colonel,^" laughs Lady Anne. 

“Not at all; not at all. If, as they say, ‘ v?.'rt > . 
charming,^ he should now be supremely happy. 
bye, my mother and Mrs. Amyot, and Halkett, and in la<..L 
the lot of ^em, want to come over to see you. Lady Branks- 
mere, as soon as you can permit it, or feel strong enough."^ 

“ I am strong enough this moment. I shall be de- 
lighted,"" says Muriel. “Tell your mother so, with my 
Jove."" 

“But really — so many — you mustn"t overdo it, you 
know,"" protests Primrose. 

“ It will do her good,"" decides Lady Anne, gayly. 


338 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


After a little bit Primrose fades away, by imperceptible 
degrees, following Lady Anne’s footsteps, who moves grace- 
fully from the Bohemian vases to the conservatory and back 
again, and finally coming to a standstill in the fiowers’ 
pretty home brings him to a resting point too. Margery 
and Tommy Paulyn have gone in search of the twins who 
have been absent sufficiently long to make every one sure 
that now at last they have come to the untimely end they 
are always courting, and Muriel left alone lies back among 
her cushions with a tired sigh, and a vague sense of having 
missed her place in the world. Nobody wants her. She 
is a bit of useless lumber that ought to be condemned to 
the attics without delay. 

There is a pathos in the impatience with which she lifts 
her head as Branksmere enters the room. 

“ 1 hope you feel better — more yourself,” he says kindly. 

‘‘ That is the last thing you sliould hope,” returns she, 
with an ungraciousness born of miserable thought. 

“ Still,” gently, “as I do hope it, give me if you can 
the answer I would have.” 

“ What IS it, Branksmere?” asks she suddenly, with a 
strange, tremulous touch of passion. She lifts herself on 
her elbow and looks full at him with her great troubled 
eyes. “ Are you ^iwing to arrange your account with 
Heaven, that thus seek to overburden me with a kind- 
ness you can u'd feci?' 

“ Tt is a })ity you look at tilings with such distorted 
sidd,” returns he. “I feel for you only kindness. Be- 
lieve 

“ Well, i don’t!” slovlj^. “ I have tried to, but it is not 
7:>r>fi8ible, I Even a small thing — to forget it, is hard 

--and you, how could you forget? Oh! no!” She 'puts 
Ui) her hand with a little natural gesture that betokens 
: fully than words how impossible she beheves it would 

oe for him to entirely obliterate from his memory the past. 

“ What can I do to convince you,” asks he in a tone of 
sore distress. 

“ Nothing! And do not try to convince yourself. It 
will be time thrown away. No man could forgive it. And 
yet— was it all. my fault?” cries she with growing excite- 
ment. “If I had known — at first; but I was treated as a 
cliild, as a fool might be, and then, when it was too late— 
the truth was hurled upoc. aie!” 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 339 

She sinks back exhausted, and covers her face with her 
hands. 

“The crime was mine; I wronged you/ ^ says Branks- 
mere, gently but hurriedly dropping some perfume into 
the hollow of his hand, and then pressing the hand against 
her brow. She does not turn from him. “ I believed time 
would arrange all things. She had been for so long undis- 
covered — six years! — ^tliat I thought her secret would have 
died with her. We knew she could not live for many years, 
as she had an aneurism of the heart that might carry her 
off at any moment. 

“ You trusted to chance. You trusted to everything 
save me,^^ exclaims Lady Branksmere, sitting up, and, 
after a slight effort, rising to her feet. “ You withheld 
all from me. All! Oh! if you had but spoken ! But you 
were deliberately silent. You refused me a wife^s place. 
You put me from you as thongli I were a stranger. 

“ Hoiu could I speak? How could I find it easy to ex- 
plain with that solemn oath to the dead upon my soul? 
And to you of all others!^"’ He pauses. His last words 
are full of a sad eloquence. What sympathy could he ex- 
pect from her — from the unloving woman who had with- 
held from him always, even the common sympathy of a 
friend! “ How could I give voice to my brother's dis- 
honesty — and to you — who cared nothing for me: who 
would have received the story with a sneer, it might be, or 
a contemptuous word.^^ 

“ Ah!^^ The exclamation is so low that Branksmere fails 
to hear it, so wrajoped up is he in mournful recollection. It; 
is indeed almost a sigh. 

“ I feared to speak, he goes on hurriedly. “ I dreaded 
the thought that you might demand from me the dismissal 
of that poor creature, and have driven her from the only 
home she then knew.^'’ 

“'Was all that Madame von Thirsk^s teaching ?^^ asks 
Muriel, cold and pale. “ Am I so poor a thing that I have 
not even common pity in me ! That I have lowered myself 
in your esteem I know; but at least grant me some human 
feeling !^^ 

There is a passion of despair in her voice. 

“ Do not speak to me like that,^^ says Branksmere. 

“ You are as high as ever in my esteem. I remember all 
indeed, but — 


340 


LADY DRANKSMERE. 


As high as ever?” interrupts she. ‘‘ Is that true? At 
least when you married me no one could cast a stone at me 
— and now! Though actually guiltless, in your secret soul 
do you not condemn me?'’^ 

“ No.^^ The assurance comes steadily from his hps. 
Laying his hands upon her shoulders he presses her back 
into her seat. “ This excitement is bad for you,^^ he says, 
“ and but that I know dwelling on this unhappy subject is 
worse, I would not permit it. Now, hear me! I knew 
even when you consented to marry me that your heart was 
not mine, but yet I trusted — I hoped — Well, never mind 
that!^^ hastily. “ At all events I believed myself satisfied 
to take the risk. I knew you did not love me. What I 
did not know " — with the first touch of an impassioned re- 
proach in his tone — “ was that you loved — another !^^ 

There you are wrong,^^ cries she eagerly. “ I cared for 
him — I sioear it, Branksm^re — as little as I cared — for 
you.^'’ The words are bitter, yet they contain for him a 
whole world of sweetness. 

‘‘You say that! yet you were willing to go with — ^liim! 
To abandon me, who, however unsuited to you as you 
might think, had* surely the first claim on you. Your 
words — regarding her with a glance of agonized uncer- 
tainty — “ do not tally with your actions.-’^ 

“You forget the provocation!^^ returns she steadily, 
but in a voice that is growing more and more fatigued. 
“ There was no love m me for you or him, but there was 
something stronger that you created, the longing for re- 
venge. You had (as I believed) flung me from my right- 
ful place, and planted another there. I was nothing to 
you. Y^ou would willingly have seen me out of your way; 
while he — (I was mad if you like, but I would have staked 
every hope I had upon it tlmi), loved me. Great Heaven! 
what folly it was; what a fool I have been all through!'^ 

“If you think that — if you are sure — there still might 
be — 

“ No — no,^^ she interrupts him passionately, putting up 
her hands as though to ward him off. Then in a calmer 
tone — “ Let that thought be dead between us forever!^'’ 

Branksmere, thus repulsed, draws back from her, and 
leaning his arm upon the mantel-piece gazes moodily into 
the fire. 

The minutes pass slowly, awkwardly, and then at last 


LADY BKAN-KSMERE. 341 

Muriel breaks the silence that has become almost unbeara- 
ble. 

“ Does Lady Anne know?"^ she asks, in a subdued tone 
that somehow suits the moment. 

“ She is entirely ignorant. He does not lift his eyes as 
he answers her, but continues his moody gaze into the fire. 
“ Everything was carefully concealed from her.” 

‘‘ She and I are in the same boat, then. We have been 
kept, both of us, most cruelly in the dark. And why? 
Were we not womwn, with hearts — with — 

“ She was! That is why I decided upon hiding from her 
her husband ^s falsity. ” 

‘‘ And I am not! Is that your insinuation? It is very 
bitter, Branksmere, but it is only just. You should indeed 
be the one to scorn me. But I am sick of myself. It is of 
Anne I would now hear. You say you concealed all from 
her, as from me. Did it never occur to you that there 
might be too much secrecy? Do you know — with some 
swSt vehemence — “ that but for all this diplomacy of yours 
she might have married years ago, a good man — a man 
who not only truly loves her, but is worthy of her love?” 

“ I donrt know what you mean,^^ says Branksmere, who 
in truth has paid little attention to Lord Primrose and his 
wooing. Is there someone who — ” 

There is Primrose. I tell you there has been too much 
concealment in this matter. J&ave you not noticed? Have 
you seen nothing? Primrose is devoted to her, and but for 
a foolish clinging to the memory of a man who was false to 
her, Anne would have given him not only her hand, bift 
her heart long ago. ” 

‘‘ But are you positive? Is there no doubt? You may 
perhaps — ” 

“ If you refuse to set this affair straight, I shall,” de- 
clares she quickly. What! Is everything to be sacrificed 
to a most ignoble memory? I am bound by no vows to the 
dead; I shall speak, even though 3W withhold permission.” 

I do not withhold it,^^ says Branksmere, gently, seeing 
how flushed and exhausted she looks. “ Do as you think 
best about it, but sj)are my brother^'s name as far as you 
can. I ask this for Anne, for his wife^s sake, not for 
mine. ” 

‘‘Then I have your permission?” asks she. “Well,” 


342 


LADY BKANKSM5KE. 


with a sudden gentleness, ‘‘ I am better with it than 
wiChout it.^^ 


CHAPTER LI. 

“ No lesse was she in secret heart affected.” 
***** 

“Ah! Lady Branksmere — alone says Piimrose, in 
his usual airy fashion, as he enters the drawing-room about 
a week later. “ That speaks well for your strength, eh?^^ 

“It is hardly kind now to remind me I ever was an in- 
vahd. I have almost forgotten it,^^ returns she, smiling 
and pointing to a low chair near her lounge. “ Anne has 
» gone to the Manor to carry a little commission to Mrs. 
Daryl; and Margery is, I dare say, arranging with Curzon 
how they are to live on nothing a year.^^ There is no 
callousness in this speech, only a sort of tender amuse- 
ment. 

“ I heard of Bellew^s loss. I doiiT know when I was 
more sorry for anything, especially when I heard of pretty 
Miss Margery^ s decision. Yet they are not altogether to 
be pitied; they have love on their side,^^ says Primrose, in 
his quaint way. “ But they will be rather out of the 
et ceteras of life, I am afraid. ’’ 

“ I am afraid so, too. In spite of anything / can do, I 
am afraid so,^^ says Muriel, a deeper shadow falling into 
her eyes. “ However, there is still a chance for them.^^ 
She sighs quickly, and throws from her with a swift sigh 
the subject of Margery. “ Do you know, I have wanted 
to see you for some time. To see you alone, I mean,^^ 
she says, looking full at Lord Primrose. 

“ Now you have me at your disposal, deal gently with 
me,^^ entreats he. “ By the bye, here are some violets,” 
drawing from a loose pocket a dishevelled but still sweet 
bunch of those dearest flowers, “ that only want a h'ttle 
water to restore them to their pristine beauty and make 
them perfect as of old. You would like them, perhaps? 

“lam not a receiver of stolen goods — they are Anne^s I 
think/ ^ says she, smiling. 

“ Well, I dare say they were meant for her,” confesses 
the little man, whose nature abhors a lie in any shape or 
form. 


LAD\ BRANKSMERE. 


343 


“ We^ll have them put into water for her/^ says Muriel, 
ringing a bell close to her elbow. Then, seizing the ojtpor- 
tunity given: ‘‘You have known Lady Anne for a long 
time, have you not?^^ 

“ Always, I should think. At least I have taken no 
count of the time when she was ?mknown to me — if she 
ever was.^^ He laughs whimsically. 

“You are a friend of hers?^^ 

To this Primrose makes no immediate reply. He looks 
at her fixedly, and then — 

“You know all about how it is with me, eh?^^ he says 
simply, looking full at Muriel out of his honest, if re- 
markably light eyes. “ I have you on my side, eh.^'^ 

“ You have, indeed. Of that be assured. 

“I- have no need of assurance. I felt it always— that 
you would support my cause, I mean. Something in your 
eyes told me you would help me, were help possible. Is 
it?^" 

“ There is always a chance. 

“Yes? You really believe I need not yet take myself 
off to the North Pole, or go a-hunting on the boundless 
prairie? l)o you know,-’^ here he leans forward, and 
changes his tone, “ I think she likes me in her soul, or I 
should not have made myself a burden to her for so many 
years. 

“You are the one faithful man on earth, I think, says 
Muriel, with sudden, if cold, enthusiasm. “ You are sure, 
then, that she — likes you?^' 

“ As positive as I dare be. But she can not bring her- 
self to forget the — the old ties. Odd. Eh? Because 
they werenT such very strong ties when one comes to re- 
member them. Not exactly ‘ all for love and the world 
well lost ^ sort of thing. You being one of the family 
probably know all about it. There was a difference, d^ye 



“ I have often thought that you being so much with her, 
and she being so attached to you, that — er — you might 
have some influence with her. 

“Oh! no, no. I have no influence with any one,^^ de- 
clares Lady Branksmere, hurriedly. “ Do not mistake 
about that. 

“ If you haven T influence,'’^ says Primrose, regarding 


344 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


her keenly, “ you have at least something to tell me. 
Getting up from his seat he goes over to the window, and 
stands so that he can look down upon her. 

“ There you are right, she says. “ And yet, after all, 
it may not be of use to you, so wayward a woman can be. 
She checks herself as if imcertain how to proceed. “ What 
I have wanted to tell you is, that of late I have heard one 
or two things of — She pauses. 

“ Lady Anne?^^ eagerly. 

No. Of her husband. 

“ Of Arthur Branksmere?^^ 

“ Yes. You knew him, I think?^^ 

‘‘ Intimately. 

Any good of him?^^ 

‘‘ Well — he^s dead you Know,^^ says Primrose reflect- 
ively. 

“ A very eloquent answer. Dear Primrose! for once be 
sensible — ^which means be selfish — and take all the good 
for yourself that can be acquired from what I am now 
going to tell you. 

The story (a little shorn) that she lays before him fills 
him with astonishment, though indeed his knowledge of 
the late Lord Branksmere had prepared him for many 
things. To him (as she had predicted) this story of shame 
and horror brings hope and joy. Already Anne has been 
disillusioned, Muriel believing it to be a false kindness that 
would let her dwindle away the good days that yet remain 
to her, in an absurd regret for one altogether unworthy of 
even one forgiving thought. All mention of the unfortu- 
nate Adela^s name, or of her residence at Branksmere, has 
been suppressed, the mere bare facts being laid before 
Ih’imrose. v 

“ She knows? You told her?^^ asks Primrose. And 
she bore it — ^liow?^^ 

‘‘ Admirably. You must remember, you should, with 
a smile, “ be glad to remember, that duty had more to do 
with Anne’s married life than love. Duty too (a very 
strained duty as it seems to me) has made her faithful to 
liis memory. But I will confess to you that when the first 
shock of my communication — the surprise, the awakening 
— ^was at an end, relief was the principal expression on her 
charming face.” She looks up at him and laughs kindly. 
“ It charming, is it not?” she asks ar(^hly. 


LADY BKANKSMEKE. 


345 


‘‘To be a just judge one should be impartial. Then 
he comes over to her, and, taking her hand, lifts it to his 
lip. “Whatever happens after this,^Mie says, “I shall 
never forget your kindness of to-day. 

“ Is that Anne^s footstep asks Lady Branksmere, ris- 
ing on her elbow. “ She has gone into the southern morn- 
ing-room, I think. She is fond of that weird old chamber. 
Should I be troubling you very much, Lord Primrose, if I 
ask you to bring me word as to whether she did, or did 
not, see Wilhelmina. 

As Primrose hurries to the door, only too anxious to obey 
this kindly command, she calls to him. 

“ Do not be in hot haste to bring me an answer, she 
says smiling, “ I am tired. I shall try for my forty wiuks 
now I have successfully disposed of you. But bring Anne 
back here with you for tea, if all goes well. 

Anne is marching up and down the southern chamber as 
Primrose enters it, her soft cheeks aflame, and an unwonted 
fire in her mild eyes. 

“Poor little wretch she breathes warmly, staring at 
Primrose, “ to think he should have been so neglected — so 
ill-treated — and all in one day. 

“Oh, no, says Primrose, meekly, “there have been 
many days. 

“ Pshaw! I am thinking of my bird,^-’ cries she. “ He 
was almost dead for the sake of a little water when I came 
in. Servants! what are they made for, I wonder 

“ For our discomfort, soothingly. 

“ You grow sensible at last!^^ breaking into a little 
laugh. “ But my poor bird! Just think how he has suf- 
fered!^^ 

“ Alas! how kind you are to all the world — to even its 
dumb things — save me,^^ says Primrose, with a determined 
sigh. 

“ Fbu are not dumb, at all events. You sing your sor- 
rows overmuch, it seems to me.^^ 

“ Not overmuch! they are too great for that. And if I 
keej) silence they would not be heard at all, after which 
he joins her in her laughter, glad at heart to see how blithe 
she can be in spite of those tidings so crushing to her self- 
love, of which Lady Branksmere has assured him she is 
now in full possession. To speak now or never, to stritc 
while the iron is hot, becomes a fixed idea with him. Witt 


346 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


the words almost on his lips that he intends to say, he 
turns to her, but is forestalled in his intention. 

‘‘It is a most uncomfortable world, declares Lady 
Anne, before he has time to speak. She has sunk into a 
chair upon the hearth-rug, and is gazing gloomily at the 
hre which, in truth, has fallen rather low. 

“ Still, there are moments — begins he in a deprecatory 
tone. ; 

“ Not many;^^ still staring at the waning fire. 1 

“You take a too despairing view of it, I think, says 
Primrose earnestly. Evidently she has taken the news of 
her husband ^s treachery very much to heart. “ And, con- 
sidering the time — 

“That is what I am consiciering,^^ interrupts she. 
“ Have you forgotten, with a glance full of the liveliest 
reproach, “ that this is the month of November?^ ^ 

Primrose racks his brain. Was this then the month in 
which her “ poor Arthur came to such an untimely end? 
He can not remember. 

“ What I mean is,^'’ he says, stammering a little, “ that 
time brightens all things. 

“ Eh?"^ She looks puzzled. “ I donT believe it,” she 
declares at last. 

‘ ‘ Sure to, if people will only let well alone. ” 

“You are all in favor of letting it alone.” Again she 
looked perplexed. “ Now I am not. I think ” — with 
some force — “ there is nothing like a good stirring u]:)?” 

“ Good heavens! Are you bent on raking up all—” 

“No! For the simple reason — ” with a disconsolate 
glance at the nearly empty fire-place, “ that there is so lit- 
tle to rake. ” 

Now tliis is taking a much more reasonable view of the 
matter. 

“ I entirely agree with you,” says Primrose nervously. 
“ In my opinion there is nothing like letting things die 
out. ” 

“ Die but!” She regards him with some severity. “ I 
really believe you are trying to make me even more wretch- 
ed than I am. ” 

“You know me better than that!” softly. “You must 
1 now how I feel for and with you. But — consider — would 
yoi! have it always before you?^"^ 

“ Certainly,” says Lady Anne, with decision. She 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


347 


seems a little disgusted. “You must be a person of a sin- 
gularly warm temperament,^^ she continues with an ap- 
proach to scorn. 

“ Warm enough, at least, to make me long to comfort 
you, if that be possible. You seem very depressed, gaz- 
ing at her with deep solicitude. “ Is there anything that I 
can do for you?^’’ 

“ Yes,^^ says Lady Anne, “ and I think you might have 
done it before without all this tiresome preamble.^'’ 

“ Tell me how I can serve you,^^ cries he eagerly, grow- 
ing hope in his eyes. “ All my life, as you well know, is 
at your disposal ; and if — 

“ Well then, just ring the bell for coals, will you,^^ says 
she, turning once more with a shiver to the dying fire. 
“ As I said before, it is a ihost uncomfortable world. 

“ Anne!^^ calUng her by the more familiar appellation in 
his chagrin, “ do you mean to tell me you have been talk- 
ing of that — er — confounded fire all this time?^^ 

“ Why, what were you talking of?^^ demands she, in 
turn, staring at him. 

“ Of — that is — look here,^^ mumbles he nervously, “ you 
have heard about Arthur, haveiiT you?^^ 

“ Oh! was that it?^^ thoughtfully. Her brows contract, 
and she looks distressed and a little forlorn. “ I had for- 
gotten it for the moment, she says, wearily. 

“ DonT try to forget it,^^ advises he gently, persuasively. 
“ It would be impossible, donT you know; but rather let 
me help you to remember it with — er — equanimity. After 
all he was never worthy of you, and — 

“ And you think you are,^^ letting her eyes rest on him 
with a reflective regard. 

“ Not altogether! But I think I might be so in time,'*'’ 
says he, being a very honest lover. 

There is a short pause. 

“ Well, so do ly” says Lady Anne frankly, holding out 
to him her hand. “And to do you only bare justice. 
Primrose, I donT think time is required. I think (with 
a sudden beautiful softening of her gentle eyes) “ you are 
worthy of a far better woman even now.'’^ 

This swift and sweet surrender takes him by storm. 
The color springs to the little maiTs cheeks. 

“ Why should I dispute so foolish a speech, he says, 
lifting her hand to his lij)s. “ You know, Anne, what I 


^48 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


think of you. That your compeer is not to be met with 
upon earth. 


CHAPTEE LIL 

“ Our happiness in this world depends on the affections we are 
enabled to inspire,” 

* * * * * * * 

“ And then, then only, when we love, we live!” 

* * * -Jr * * * 

All the world outside is white with snow. The branches 
hang low because of it; the berries of the brilliant hollies 
are so far covered that only a little touch of scarlet here 
and there can be seen. Muriel, stretched upon her couch, 
watches with a lazy interest a ' tiny robin with its pretty 
crimson breast, that hops ever and ever nearer to the crumbs 
she has placed upon the sill outside the window, close to 
which she is lying. It must be a new robin, a trembling, 
nervous little stranger, because those who have visited her 
during the past month are now so tame as to have grown 
overbold. There had come even a day when they had 
pecked loudly at her window-pane, as though to demand 
the dainties she had forgotten to place for them. 

The winds are sighing piteously. Ever and anon they 
dash them selves against the sashes, as though they would 
fain enter the cozy, firelighted room with its delicate satin 
trappings of rose and chocolate, and its subtle perfume 
that suggests a raid having been made by some one upon 
the winter-houses. 

Feeling a little tired and spiritless. Lady Branksmere 
had refused to go to the library to-day, but had, instead, 
ensconced herself in her boudoir, and, surrounded by 
periodicals, had elected to sleep and read away the after- 
noon. It is pretty far spent now, and, tired of her read- 
ing, Muriel has sunk back on her couch, and closed her 
eyes with, perhaps, a faint hope that sleep may visit her. 

The room is warm, the scent of the flowers seductive. 
She has grown presently so drowsy that the opening of the 
door, though she hears it, fails to rouse her to a more open 
declaration of wakefulness. 

Whoever it is who enters stands irresolutely upon the 
threshold of this, her own particular sanctum, as though 
uncertain as to whether he shall t'nter or retire, and yet 


LADY I5RANKSMERE. 


349 


evidently unwilling to go. Probably inclination conquers, 
because, after a moment^s pause he comes on tiptoe to the 
fire-place, and, under the mistaken impression that its mis- 
tress is asleep, seats himself cautiously in a huge arm- 
chair. 

It is a glorious arm-chair, soft and roomy, and caressing. 
Lord Branksmere has not been in it many minutes when, 
overcome by the influence of the fire and the seduction of 
the atmosphere, he falls into a sound sleep. 

Had he dreams? Were they rose-colored? Did — did 
some one (alas! how unlikely — a some one) come to his side 
and bend over him, and brush back with gentle fingers the 
dark hair (of late so subtly touched with gray) from his 
forehead? If his dreams were such, they were evidently 
unfounded, because when he wakes presently with a start, 
the room is as still as ever, and Muriel is lying over there 
as mute, as motionless as when he entei’ed. By the' bye it 
is as well she hadnH waked to find him slumbering here 
within her own special den. She would hardly have been 
gracious to so decided an outsider. He smiles bitterly to 
himself as he thinks this, and, rising to his feet, creeps as 
he came on tiptoe to the door. 

Being a man (poor creature !) he is of course clumsy, and 
his creeping this time results in the fall of a little cranky- 
legged chair against a spider-table crammed with china. 
Some of this china most unkindly comes with a crash to 
the floor. It isn^t much of a crash, but it apparently 
wakes its owner. 

‘‘ Who is there ?^^ asks Muriel, sitting up suddenly, and 
blinking in a rather more sleepy fashion tlian a sleepy per- 
son really would. 

It is I; Branksmere,^ ^ returns that individual con- 
fusedly. “There, it isnT broken," he says, picking the 
ugly little cup off the carpet. “ I^m sorry I disturbed you, 
and of course I ought to apologize ‘for my intrusion here, 
but finding you asleep I thought IM wait — and — er — 

“ But you didnH wait! Where are you going now?^^ 
demands she, querulously, seeing he is making for the 
door. 

“ 3^owhere in particular. More for a short stroll before 
tiiiincr than anything else. If you dislike being alone, 
bu'vever, shall I send — 


850 


LADY BRANKSMEKE. 


“No one! fractiously, “you won^t stay, I would 
rather be alone. " 

She turns away her head, and buries it rebelliously in 
the cushions. 

Branksmere flushes crimson. 

“ Me! Do you want me to stay?^^ he asks. 

“ Oh, of course, I donH. I only desire to be left in 
peace, cries she, impatiently. 

Branksmere, drawing a low chair beside her couch, seats 
himself deliberately upon it. 

“ Don^t stick your nose into the cushions in that ridicu- 
lous way,^^ he says in his usual brusque fashion, “ but turn 
round, and explain to me what it is you really desire. 

A low sound escapes her. She lifts her head and makes 
a slight movement in his direction, and then sinks back 
again as if exhausted. 

“I feel so tired — so tired,’’’ she breathes, fretfully, 
wearily, her eyes filling with tears as she acknowledges the 
fatigue that is overpowering her. 

“ You haven’t had your sherry and quinine — that’s it,” 
declares he, springing to his feet and bringing it to her. 
“ Now, sit up and drink it.” 

“ No,” turning away distastefully. “ I hate it.” 

“That isn’t of the least consequence,” coldly, “you 
must take it. So come. No, don’t do that! You must, 
you know.” 

He holds down the impatient hand she has raised. 

“ Must I?” repeats she, with a little feeble exhibition of 
determination. “ Well, let us see!” 

“To please me, then,” says Branksmere, roused to 
genius by his anxiety. He could have sunk into the ground 
when the words have passed his lips, but he has not time 
for false shame, before the remarkable results of his speech 
display themselves. 

Muriel, when she has stared at him for a long minute, 
drops her eyes, and, taking the medicine from his hand, 
swallows it without another word. 

“ It is abominable,” she says then, pushing him and the 
glass away from her and sinking back upon her couch. She 
speaks harshly, as though with an anxiety to reassert her- 
self, and to destroy the suspicion of weakness her compli- 
ance might have possibly given rise to, in his mind. 

“ It will be, I hope, only a passing dis^greeability. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


35.1 


will soon be able to give it up/^ says Branksmere. Then 
he pauses and looks at her with a sudden intensity. His 
face pales, as he nerves himself to say what for some time 
has lain heavy on his mind. ‘‘ You do not grow stronger/^ 
he exclaims, blurting it out at last, in a rather spasmodic 
fashion. 

“ No,"*^ she smiles. “You, too, ‘see that?^^ She 
stretches out her arms with a gesture of relief. “ I am 
glad of it," she breathes softly. “ It is the best thing that 
could happen for both you and me.^^ 

“ What is?^" sharply. 

“ My death! I canT tell you,^^ her voice sinking to an 
exultant whisper, “ how very, very much weaker I have 
felt to-day and yesterday. It will be consumption, I sup- 
pose, and a rapid one, I hope. " 

Branksmere, who has not recovered his color, regards 
her keenly. 

“You are wrong in one particular,^ ^ he says slowly. 
“ In spite of all that has come and gone, I should not con- 
sider it the best thing for me.^^ 

“ That shows your folly, with a frown. 

“ Probably. Yet I would not wish myself wiser in that 
matter. And why should things be always between us as 
they are to-day. Consider. Life is short, shall we waste 
it? If, in the future, you could come to regard me as — 

“ No, no V ^ with a burst of passionate vehemence, shrink- 
ing from him, though he has not attempted to touch her, 
“ put that out of your head- at once and forever. Wliat! 
Do you imagine you could be sincere in such a wish? Do 
not act the hypocrite, Branksmere! Shun that ignoble 
part. " 

She sits up on her couch, and lifting one hand presses 
back the loosened hair from her white brow. She looks 
pale and haggard, and the great hollows beneath her eyes 
give those lovely features a depth that adds to their brill- 
iancy. She is looking subdued, but very beautiful in spite 
of the fever that still lurks within her veins, and the crush- 
ing memories that keep her low, and- 

“ The passions and the cares that wither life, 

And waste its little hour.” 

“ I am no hypocrite, as you well know," returns Branks- 
mere, with meaning. “ But with yoic how is it? Do yon 


352 


LADY BRAKKSMEKE. 


conceal nothing — hide away no desire in your inmost heart 
of which the world must not dream? You should think 
twice/'’ coldly, “ before you accuse me of hypocrisy/'’ 

‘‘ You mean?^'’ — demands she, with stormy eyes. 

“I wish I could tell you even half that I mean, '’de- 
clares he, rising to his feet and beginning to pace the floor 
with uneven strides. ‘‘Will nothing ever deaden that 
memory within you? Must you always know regret? And 
such a regret 

“You forget yourself, says Muriel. Her tone is cold. 
She is trembling from head to foot. 

“ That is true,’^ cries he vehemently. “ I forget all. I 
remember only you. 

“ Forget me, then!'’^ Her tone is full of an anger that 
is more than half melancholy. “ Blot me out of your re- 
membrance. It is the one thing I most earnestly desire, 
Oh!’^ she clasps her hands together and looks full at him 
with eyes wide and anguished. “ Oh, that I could be sure 
that your thoughts never dwelt on me. 

“ You can not be sure of that,^^ says Branksmere, dog- 
gedly. 

“ Is this my punishment? Would* you compel me to be 
forever before you — knowing you were remembering! See 
here,^^ she cries, in an impassioned tone, holding out her 
arms to him with a gesture full of entreaty. “ Let me 
go! It is all I ask. After all, I doubt my chance with 
Death. For once he may show the most mistaken mercy, 
and instead of killing me may leave me here to a thing fai- 
worse than his embrace. Oh! Branksmere, think! Think! 
The shame of it — it is the shame ot it that is destroying me. 
Let me go.^^ 

“ You would have a formal sparation! That is impos- 
sible,^^ replies he, in a low tone. “ Do not hope for that; 
I will not submit to it."’^ 

“ Then you shall take the consequences,^^ cries she wild- 
ly. “I swear I will not live here, day by day, with all the 
hateful, the shameful past forever before me. Have you 
no pity, none? Can you not see what it means to me? Or 
are you deaf and blind to all my misery?” 

“You would leave, me, then.^^^ 

“ Forever. Can I go?” with trembhng eagerness. 
“ When may I go?’^ 

“ This is your second effort to leave, me, says Branks- 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


353 


mere, calmly. Then all at once liis studied quiet leaves 
him, he goes quickly to her and, laying his hand upon her 
arm, turns her where the light can fall more fully upon 
her face. “ So you would desert me forever. Forever! 
that is what you say. Is all my care of no avail? Does 
my silence count for nothing, my patience, my for — he 
checks himself. 

“ Your forbearance?^’ coldly. “ Yes; you have been 
forbearing. Do you think I forget? Oh! that I could I” 

“ If you could, I should be the first thing cast aside?” 
His tone is a question. 

“ That is only the bare truth,” returns she, icily. 

He lays his hands upon her shoulders and bending her a 
little from him, looks into her face. 

“ Are you human?” he asks, huskily. ‘‘ Have you no 
feeling? Great Heaven!” pushing her away and then as 
suddenly laying his hand upon her arm and drawing her 
back to him, as if to read her very heart. How deadly 
cruel you beautiful women can be!” 

Let me go,” she says, in a tone dangerously low. He 
loosens his grasp at once, and she steps backward feebly, 
laying her hand upon the chair nearest her as if to steady 
herself. 

‘‘ Am I so abhorrent to you, that my very touch i.an 
bring such a look into your face?” demands Branktinen , 
with a frown. ' 

The excitement and the agitation are telling on her ter- 
ribly. She is trembling from head to foot. 

“Go!” she says faintly, pointing to the door. 

“ Ho, I shall not go,” returns he with a settled deter- 
mination. As though to strengthen his resolve he seats 
himself. “ Let us come to the root of this matter. You 
desire a life altogether apart from me. Why?” 

“ I have already explained,” replies she sullenly. 

“ To escape from a past that is known to you and me 
alone; to obtain a freedom that will leave you open to the 
world’s cruelest innuendoes. A woman separated from her 
husband very seldom gains a martyr’s crown in this life. 
Be reasonable, I entreat you. ” 

“ You misunderstand — ” 

“ On the contrary, I understand you well enough. You 
desire leisure to brood over your griefs, to spend in a vain 


354 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 


regret, not for wliat you have willfully resigned, hut for 
what you have lost 

It is folly to waste insults on me. I am too poor a 
foe for that,^^ returns she coldly. “I have already told 
you that regrets of the kind you hint at are unknown to 
me.'’^ She moves her head languidly and looks at him. 
“ If I might be alone,^^ she says, speaking as if with diffi- 
culty, “ or must I leave the — " 

With an impatient gesture Branksmere goes by her to- 
ward the door. He has reached it, when suddenly, as if 
compelled to it, he comes back to her, and taking her in 
his arms strains her to his breast with an almost convulsive 
clasp. 

“ You don^t love me — I know that,^^ he says in a stifled 
tone, “ but swear to me before Heaven that you love no 
other man.^^ 

‘‘ I swear it,^^ says Lady Branksmere, overcome by the 
igony in his voice. 

“ Not,^^ gazing fixedly and suspiciously at her, “ that 
devil 

“Oh! no, no, no.^' She shudders violently. 

Once again he presses her passive form to his heart, and 
then, with quivering lips and somber eyes, looks down at 
her. Her eyes are lowered; her features are still as marble. 

“ Pah!'’^ he says, pushing her almost roughly from him. 

Yon liave a heart of ice! You are not worth it all!^'’ 

He strides toward the door. He has gained it — opened 
it — is on the threshold — when a low cry breaks from her. 

“ Stay, stay, Branksmere !^^ she calls aloud in a wild, 
impassioned tone. 

Closing the door, he returns to her side, slowly, as one 
amazed, and awaits in silence her explanation. She strug- 
gles desperately for self-possession, and then — all at once, 
as it were— bursts into a storm of tears, a storm so heavy 
that it seems to tear her frail body and shake it to its very 
center. 

“It is nothing!’" she sobs vehemently. “Oh! you 
should not stay because I ask you. You should go. Why 
should you obey any request of mine? I must be mad to 
call to you at all. But I could not let you go believing me 
altogether heartless. I am not that. Ah! if time could 
only be given to me over again; if these last hateful 


LADY BRANKSMEliE. 355 

months could be wiped from the tablet of my life, how 
different all might be/^ 

The months of your married life?^^ asks he with an 
ominous calm in look and tone. 

‘‘Yes.^^ 

‘‘ What madness possesses you to talk to me like this/^ 
exclaims he suddenly. “ Are you determined to defy me 
to the last? Have you no fear?^^ 

“ What is there left to fear?^^ asks she mournfully. 
“ My own hopes, your good will, all I have bartered. If 
these dead months I speak of had never been, you might 
still — She breaks ofi: abruptly, and glances at him in a 
half -frightened, nervous fashion. 

“ I might, what?” demands he, eagerly. His manner 
has entirely changed, the hidden wrath has been conquered, 
a deep anxiety has taken its place. 

‘‘ Do not pursue the subject. It is useless to go into it 
now. The past is ever with me, there is no escaping it, 
and the future is a void from wliich I shrink. 

‘‘ Nevertheless, tell me.^^ 

She makes a negative gesture with her hand. It seems 
as though she is afraid to speak, lest words bring with them 
tears once more. 

‘‘ Do not repulse me, I implore you,^^ entreats he, lay- 
ing his hand upon her arm. ‘‘ Speak — say what was on 
your mind — what was on your lips just now?^^ 

Impressed by the solemnity of his address, she struggles 
with herself, and at last some words fall from her. 

“ If time could roll backward. If this could be again 
the year when first I saw you; if you could be once more 
my lover — not my husband — ” She stops dead short, as 
though to go further, to enter into explanation, to termi- 
nate her sentence, is beyond her. 

“lam your lover now, as I was then— as I shall be al- 
ways — says Branksmere in a low but steady tone. The 
words have hardly passed his lips, when he has to go 
quickly to her assistance. The color has tied from her lips; 
she sways helplessly, and but that he catches her in his 
arms she would have fallen. 


356 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


CHAPTER LIIL 

“ ’Tis death to me to be at enmity.” 

Lifting her he lays her gently on the fur-covered 
lounge, and bending over her gazes with a terrible anxiety 
upon her face that is now as pale as though death has al- 
ready claimed her for his own. Her beautiful limbs 
stretched nerveless upon the couch show no sign of life; 
the purple lines beneath the closed lids throw out more 
clearly the marble pallor of the cheeks below. 

If she has fainted, however, it is an insensibility of but 
short duration. Presently she uplifts the heavy lids, and 
sighing gently, moves her tired head from side to side. 
Sitting down by her, Branksmere gently chafes her hand, 
and after a little induces her to take a glass of champagne 
he has procured from Bridgman. 

After five minutes or so have gone by in absolute silence, 
Muriel suddenly turns her eyes full upon him. There is in 
them the fretful reproach of one who is either very ill or 
very unhappy. 

“ These pillows!^'’ she says petulantly, “ Oh! how they 
make my head ache.^^ 

“ Let me settle them,^^ softly, as though consoling a lit- 
tle weary child, he speaks. He raises the pillows, and is 
still arranging them, so that she must know comfort, when 
her head falls back as if exhausted. Her eyes close, and 
Branksmere, fearing she has again fainted, does not dare 
to stir, hardly indeed dares to breathe, while she lies there 
resting unconsciously within his arms. It reminds him of 
that first day after her great illness when he had in such 
wise supported her; but then she had been indeed unaware 
of his presence. Now — His heart beats quickly. Stoop- 
ing to examine more minutely the lovely wasted face, he 
sees that she has recovered herself, and that two tears have 
forced themselves from under her long lashes. She is sen- 
sible, yet she has not withdrawn herself from his encircling 
arm! 

The tears slowly, very slowly, travel down the wan lines 
of her face, but her eyes go up to his. 

‘‘ How good you are to meP^ she breathes brokenly. 


LADY BBANKSMERE. 


357 


She lifts the hand that is round her neck, and drawing it 
still more tightly round her presses the fingers to her lips. 
A thrill runs through Branksmere. Now, at lad, when 
despair has seemed his portion, are life, hope, joy coming to 
him? “ But you must not say such things to me. My 
lover I Alas! all such times are gone forme. I am an 
outsider, a creature with no interests, and in whom no one 
finds interest. There are moments,^' she says, with a pa- 
thetic attempt at calm that strikes him as being especially 
mournful, “ when I feel the loneliness of it — the desire for 
something beyond — something irrecoverable. 

Muriel, do not turn from me. Look at me. When 
I used that word I meant it. Your lov^er. I am your 
lover now, even now.-^^ His face has blanched, his tone is 
sharp and impassioned. 

“ All that is folly, cries she excitedly, rising on her 
elbow. “You would be something more than human to 
forgive what has happened. It is impossible, I tell you.^^ 
She draws her breath with an uncertain violence, as though 
deeply agitated. Her eyes meet his; suddenly she covers 
her face with her hands. “ Oh,'’^ cries she, with a wild in- 
consistency, “ if it might be possible. If I might dare be- 
lieve—’^ 

“ Believe this, at least, Muriel, that I love you.^^ 

“ You could not love — remembering.” 

“ I suppose I could — because I do.^'’ 

“ What! Nay, Branksmere, why should you perjure 
yourself to please a dying woman. Think, dwell on all 
that has occurred, and tell me if you can still hold to your 
words. ” 

“ Do you imagine I have not thought? And yet — I love 
you. To forget is not within the reach of any man; and 
though every smallest detail of your — error” — here his 
voice falls — “is fresh within my memory, I still swear to 
you that you, and no other woman upon earth, can call my 
heart her own.” 

“Andif— 

“ You think me weak, perhaps? Is that my reward? 
Other men might condemn what you have done, but I must 
be different from my fellows, because I see no fault in you. 

I have forgiven all. I would — if only you would let me — 
raise you to the very highest throne in my affections. 

His dark eyes, large and eager, seek hers, and meet 


358 


LADY BEANKSMERE. 


them. What he sees there sends a swift flush into his 
cheek. 

“ Ah, my day has come, then,^’ he cries, with vehement 
exultation. “ I have waited, but I have won.-’^ He takes 
her face between his hands, and gazes intently into it. 
‘‘ You will love me, Muriel? Is that what your eyes say? 
Is that what your blush means? Is that what your lip 
would utter? Oh, my beloved, for once let your lips speak 
the real truth to me, of their own accord. 

He leans over her, nearer, nearer still. Their breaths 
mingle, coming swiftly through their parted lips, their eyes 
grow to each other, there is one wild tremulous movement, 
and then they are in each other^s arms, heart to heart at 
last, with all save love forgotten! 

The sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor 
without rouses them at last to a sense of every-day life. 
There is a subdued colloquy in the corridor without, and 
Bridgman, having taken the salver from the footman, 
brings it in and hands some cards to Muriel. 

“ Lady Primrose, Mrs. Amyot, Lady Bellair.-^^ She 
reads this much aloud to show Bridgman she is her usual 
calm self, and then breaks down and rather mumbles over 
the others. 

‘‘ You canT receive them; it will be too much for you,^^ 
says Branksmere tenderly, when Bridgman has retired. 

ITl take an excuse, if you will.-’’ 

‘‘Tired, no. I feel strong, wellV^ cries she, rising 
brightly — if a little slowly — to her feet; “you have given 
me fresh life!^^ 

There is something in her new-born gayety that reminds 
him of Margery. In a moment, as it were, she has blos- 
somed into a brilHant creature, hitherto unknown, unsus- 
pected ; the great soft light that is illumining her eyes is 
altogether strange to him. “ I should like to see them,^^ 
she says eagerly. “ I can give them a real welcome to- 
day. I feel friendly toward all the world. Stopping 
short suddenly, and laying her hands on Branksmere^s 
arms: “ What a different woman I am now! Do you 
think they will know me — recognize me?^^ 

“ 1 should recognize you,'’^ returns he tenderly, raising 
her arms and inducing her to lay them round his neck. 
“ All these gone sad months you have not been my Muriel, 


LADY BRAKKSMEEE. 359 

but now she has come to me. But, sweetheart, consider. 
All this excitement, is it good for you?^ ^ 

“ Very good,^^ smiling, and in truth a faint, warm color 
has stolen into her cheeks, and reddened her pale lips. 

Come!^^ she holds out her hand to him as she walks to 
the door. 

All at once she pauses and, lifting her hands to her 
auburn head, looks at him anxiously. 

‘‘ Shall I do? Is my hair all right?^^ she asks him anx- 
iously. There is something in the confidential glance and 
tone that convinces him more than aU that has gone before 
that she is indeed his own. 

“ Oh, darling! To think it is all true!" he says, some- 
what irrelevantly, but out of the very fullness of his heart. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

“ A woman wko wants a charitable heart wants a pure mind.” 

* * * * * * * 

“ Haill holy love, thou word that sums all bliss.” 

“Here she is,^^ cries Margery gayly, as Muriel,, fol- 
lowed by Lord Branksmere, enters the room. “ So glad!^^ 
she whispers lightly, to Mrs. Billy, who with Lady Anne 
has been entertaining everybody. 

They all rise in a body to receive the beautiful invalid 
and to give her, in fact, a gentle ovation. But she looks 
so unlike the orthodox thing — so brilliant, so fresh, so full 
of life, that surprise after awhile seizes hold upon them. 

“ By Jove, you know,^^ says Halkett, who has run down 
from town for a day or two to be near his bride-elect; “ I 
never saw such a transformation in my life; I wish I could 
catch that fever. 

“ DonH," whispers Mrs. V3mer, now Lady Bellair, who 
is near him, in her little caustic whisper; “ one fever at a 
time is surely enough — and yours is bad.-’^ 

Mrs. Billy has pressed Muriel into an arm-chair close to 
old Lady Primrose, whose corkscrew ringlets are a trifle 
more pronounced than usual, owing to the fact that her 
maid has pushed the poor old thing^s front more to the 
front than is desirable. But Lady Primrose, providentially 
unaware of this, is in her most amiable mood, and having 


360 


LADY BRAKKSMERE. 


embraced Muriel warmly, has. fallen (through the heat of 
her affections possibly) into a comfortable doze. 

‘‘ Muriel, what has happened?^ ^ asks Mrs. Billy, leaning 
over the old lady^s slumbering form. 

“All that you, my best friend, could desire,^ ^ returns 
Lady Branksmere softly. 

Lady Bellair having at last managed a Ute-a-Ute with 
Mrs. Amyot (who, in a measure, has seemed to avoid her 
ever since her entrance), now sinks into a low seat near 
that lately affianced dame, and opens fire without delay. 

“ So you were afraid to tell me,^^ she says, with a mali- 
cious smile. 

“ Afraid repeats Mrs. Amyot with the absurdest as- 
sumption of ignorance, that sets the other laughing. 

“ It is really true, then?^^ 

“ Is what true?” 

“The horrible report I have heard about you.” She 
throws so much mystery into this rem^ark that Mrs. Amyot 
gets off the line, and wanders into an unsound belief that 
it is nothing so respectable as a report about her approach- 
ing marriage that has shocked Lady Bellair. 

“ About me,'’^ she says, frowning slightly. “ What! Is 
your last bit of scandal then about your friend? Has it 
come to thatf Louisa?’"’ 

“ It has, ” declares Louisa, tragically, who is delighted 
with the turn affairs have taken; “ not that I believe it. I 
don’t myself think you could be guilty of it.” 

“ That is so good' of you! We all know what that 
kindly assurance means. Not only that you do believe the 
lie, but that you are rejoiced in your heart that you can do 
so. Well! speak. Let me hear about this terrible ‘ it.’ ” 

“If you compel me to mention it,” demurely, “of 
course I must. But before I speak be so good as to re- 
member that I have exonerated you in my own mind.” 

“ Oh, never mind your mind,” says Mrs. Amyot impa- 
tiently. “ It was never anything worth talking about.” 

“ Well, but—” 

“ Will you go on?” angrily. 

“ I am so afraid you will be annoyed.” 

“ Put that fear in your pocket. I am annoyed already, 
and it doesn’t seem to have done you much harm, or hast- 
ened your slander. Come, what is it?” 

“ Hear, then, if you wdll, what people are saying about 


LADY BEANKSMEKE. 361 

it. They actually have spread it all over town that you — 
are — going to be — married 

Mrs. Amyot leans back in her chair and gives way to 
subdue but vehement merriment. Lady Bellair does quite 
as much of it inwardly, but not a muscle of her face be- 
trays the fact. 

“Oh! Nan,^^ she says, reproachfully. “ It is a wicked 
story I know, but I think you might ease my mind by 
denying it.^^ 

“ The world will be a blank to me, Louisa, when I lose 
you,^^ declares Mrs. Amyot at last. “ You are a sort of 
harmless laughing-gas, so far as I am concerned. Well — 
Fm glad you don^'t take my news worse. 

“You acknowledge it, then, without blushing 

“ Why should I blush — at my age?"’"’ 

“ Because o/your age! You, whom I believed above the 
weaknesses of your sex! You, who had lost and regained 
freedom to deliberately fling it away again! There must 
be madness in your veins. 

“ I donT look at it in your light. " 

“ Evidently not. At least not no\v. But after?’ ^ 

“ Never!” returns Mrs. Amyot, with force gathered 
from a glance just gained from Halkett’s eyes. 

“ Besotted fool!” murmurs Lady Bellair, in a mournful 
tone. “ Can naught be done to save thee?” 

“ Now, do you mean to tell me,” begins Mrs. Amyot, 
turning to her in a brisk way, “ that if Lord Bellair were 
to — to deprive us eternally of his society you know — that 
you would never marry again?” 

“ Catch me at it!” says Lady Bellair, with more 
promptitude than elegance. “ If such an outrageous bit 
of luck were to fall my way, I should know better than 
that. But it won’t,” dismally. “ Fancy your imagining 
I should trust any man again after the mean, the disgrace- 
ful way Bellair is behaving.” 

“ AVhat has he done now?” 

“ Nonsense, my dear. The question is an insult. He 
must have known that I married him in the full conviction 
that he would have the decency to drop ofl the instant he 
came in for the title. It is now fully six months since old 
Lord Bellair made room for him, and yet up to this he has 
declined to move on Why, he is as lively as a cricket and 
worse-tempered than ever. There is no chance for me, 


3(32 


LADY BKANKSMERE. 


you see, because be looks with scorn upon tobacco, regards 
brandy as an abomination, goes to bed as regular as clock- 
work at ten o’clock, rises at a healthful hour, I am told, 
and in fact eschews all methods of dying.” 

I wonder if you mean all you say?” 

‘‘ Now don’t give yourself airs, just because you are go- 
ing to marry your own true love, as you think/^ says Lady 
Bellair, with a contemptuous grin. ‘‘ Mean it? Rather! 
And only this morning he told me he never felt so brisk or 
so lively for years, and quite looked as if he expected me to 
be glad about it. Glad! Do you call that being like a 
gentleman? It’s downright low, in my opinion.” 

“ Here he is,” whispers Mrs. Amyot, in a subdued 
tone. 

‘‘ Ah! you!” cries the fair Louisa, drawing her flounces 
aside as if to make room for him on the lounge beside her, 
with the prettiest air of welcome imaginable. “ Is it not 
charming to see our dear Lady Branksmere so altogether 
her adorable self once morq,? That gown, too; what a 
success — and the color of it? Somebody must have invented 
it for her. Schalt, I shouldn’t wonder; isn’t she delicious?” 

“ Don’t know, I’m sure,” growls the new old earl gruffly, 
as he passes. ‘‘ Never took a bite out of her. ” 

“ Darling old thing!” murmurs his wife, apostrophizing 
his vanishing back for the benefit of Mrs. Amyot, after 
which she puts her face behind her fan and laughs im- 
moderately. 

‘‘ Somebody told me you never took him anywhere with 
you now; that you had by some lucky chance got him well 
under your control, and kept him there.” 

If you mean that I keep him at home, as a rule, you 
are right. You can see for yourself he is not to be trusted 
abroad without a keeper, his temper is so infinitely stronger 
than he is. I was weak enough to consent to his accom- 
panying me here to-day (he heard Lady Primrose was to 
be here, and wished to see her — old flame of his, I shouldn’t 
wonder — about the same century, eh?) and now you see 
what has been the result of my leniency. Dissipation dis- 
agrees with him, and brings out all his nasty points. But 
I’m so good-natured! I am sure it will be my ruin. Be- 
lieve me, home is the best place for him. ‘ Exempt from 
public haunts ’ he can’t do much mischief at all events.” 

“ Who is talking of mischief?” asks Halkett, drawing 


LADY BRAITKSMERE. 363 

near, and looking as affectionately at his beti’othed as 
decency would permit. 

‘‘ I was/^ says LadyBellair. ‘‘ I can't bear mischievous 
people, can you?" 

can — some of them," returns he, with an expressive 
glance at her. 

‘‘ You are like me," returns she, unabashed. “ Too 
good-hearted by half. This is a cheap day, if you like. I 
don't know when I have been so entertained as I have been 
during the past hour by Nan." 

Tliis, of course, means that she has been listening" to 
unlimited scandal," and Halkett casts a reproachful glance 
at his beloved. 

“Oh! yes. She's been at it again," continues 
Bellair, who is nothing if not malicious in a light and 
ful fashion. “ What!" with a careful artlessness, 
discovered that trait of hers yet? A poor lover, say I! 
He can't have studied you, Nan; he hasn't given you his 
undivided attention. You'll throw him over if you have a 
spark of spirit. " 

“ Whose spirit? Yours?" asks Halkett, who is always a 
little amused, and a little angry when with her. “ Do not 
trouble your head about either of us; we shall do very well. 
To make, a departure, have you noticed how well Lady 
Branksmere is looking?" 

“ There is nothing else to notice," with naive candor. 
“ We've noticed all the rest of you so painfully often that 
it isn't to be done again. That's the worst of the country; 
its gossip is so limited, and grows so remarkably stale. 
Yes, Lady Branksmere is singularly improved. There is 
something in the whole menage — brighter, fuller. How is 
it?" 

“ A general rejoicing over her recovery, no doubt." 

“ A trifle more than that, I fancy," dryly. “ One looks 
round and finds empty spaces surely. Madame missing. 
Staines obliterated. It suggests a compromise, eh.^" 

“ Nonsense," says Halkett. 

“ Not at all, in my opinion. Very wise, on the contrary, 
and very careful, but very 'poor; effect nowhere. I did the 
heroine of our little comedy the honor to believe she would 
have shown more pluck when the crisis came, whatever 
Monsieur might do. It was easy for him, see you. Ma- 
dame was so decidedly passee , " 


Lady 

play- 

^‘not 


364 


LADY ERANKSMERE. 


‘‘ Pouf ; you know nothing/^ whispers Mrs. Amyot 
lightly, who has grown very respectable since her engage^ 
ment. “ Staines received his conge simply on account of 
the discovery of that little affair of his in Brussels. Every 
one knows it now. Branksmere, it appears, heard of it 
from a man who was actually in the room when that king 
was played that was so decidedly de trop — sort of usurper 
as it were.^^ 

“ Isn’t she sharp!” murmurs Lady Bellair, turning her 
eyes full of a fond appreciation upon Mrs. Amyot. “ And 
what a pretty story, too. It comes in useful here. I like 
ingenuity. I particularh^ admire the way in which that 
canard has been made to fit.” 

She pauses to pull her skirts aside, and to smile on 
Tommy Paulyn, who, with Angelica, is passing by, en 
route to the conservatory beyond. 

“ There is a whisper in the air that Paulyn is going to 
settle down with that extremely youthful cousin of his,” 
remarks Halkett in a low tone. 

“ What! that baby!” 

“ It was Mrs. Daryl who whispered it to me. She is a 
funny little woman, who tells a funny little story very well. 
Last evening, it appears, May — one of the twins— found 
Paulyn with Miss Angelica in a distant and rather unfre- 
quented part of the shrubberies, in an attitude that struck 
the child as being full of interest. He had his arm round 
her. ‘ I think he was kissing her,’ said Miss May, ‘ and 
though she was very red, she wasn’t a bit angry, and that’s 
what I couldn’t understand, because Tommy is such an 
ugly little thing!’ ” 

They all laugh. 

“ Well, I expect Tommy could,” says Lady Bellair. “ I 
declare I call it absurd! Everybody is going to be married, 
it seems to me. Matrimony is an epidemic, and all the 
world down here has caught it. Two fresh victims have 
Just gone by, who, it is apparent to everyone, are sickening 
for it. Then there are you and ” — nodding at Halkett — 
“you! Lady Anne and that insane little Primrose, and 
last of all I hear that Margery, that pretty little Daryl idiot, 
is going to throw herself away upon that extremely ugly 
young man who has come to grief with his income, and isn’t 
worth a sou. Sort of thing, after all, one would expect 
from a girl with her eyes. ” 


LADY BBAKKSMEEE. 


“ It seems a sacrifice certainly/^ says Mrs. Amyoi 
1 dare say not. I expect he is good enough for any 
woman who could so sinfully fling away her chances. But 
what is she going to do with her big pauper? Of course 
his size aggravates the trouble. It must take such a lot to 
keep up those shoulders of his. 

“ He has something, I believe/' ventures Mrs. Amyot 
doubtfully, gazing regretfully across the room to where 
Bellew is talking to Billy Daryl. “ What a young Hercules 
he is! I'm more sorry than I know about it. " 

‘‘ There is nothing that so surely means poverty as that 
vague^ sornething/ " declares Lady Bellair yawning vague- 
ly. “ He hasn't a penny wo?-tfi speaking about, believe 
me. If she doesn't very wisolv cry off, before she takes 
the fatal plunge, they will k i. vvhut it is to be bcgcrars. 
How horrid it sounds — eh!" 

‘‘I beg your pardon, ma'i m," says a gruit voice bchino 
them that makes Lady Beuc'" iump, for perhaps the first 
time in her imperturbable life, . .■ turns Mrs. Arayot ciini- 
son. Halkett had taken himself oil a minutes ago. 
“ That ‘ little Darvl idiot,' as you so politely term my niece, 
will never be a ‘ beggar ' or a ‘ pauper ' either. Sir 
Mutius Mumm, thrusting his head forward, glares at Lady 
Bellair and nods at her furiously. 

‘‘ Eeally, Sir Mutius, I — er — " 

She is my niece, ma'am, mine/^ declares Sir Mutius, 
in a tone rich in offended dignity. 

‘‘I'm sure I congratulate her," returns Lady Bellair, 
who has now quite recovered her self-possession. 

“ Mg niece, ma'am," reiterates old Grumpy, who has 
now worked himself into a regular passion. ‘‘ I must re- 
quest," bringing his stick down upon the floor with an 
emphasis that makes the Dresden shepherdess, upon the 
cabinet close at hand, shake in her china shoes, “ that 
every one will remember that. My niece, ma'am, and my 
heiress, too! D'ye hear that?" He pauses, as though 
what he has just said is astonishing himself also. “ No 
niece of mine, ma'am, need be a pauper, or a beggar, or a 
vagrant. My niece " — he sticks to his word aggressively 
— “ as Mrs. Bellew, will be able to hold up her head as 
well as — ' ' he stops short, and looks full in a malignant 
way at Lady Bellair “ the worst of you.* ^ 

Without waiting for a rejoinder to this pretty speech he 


LADY BRAKKSMER:^. 


3(56 


hobbles away. Mrs. Amyot lifts lier brows. Halkett, 
coniing up again, is desired to stand still that he may hear 
old Grumpy's announcement. 

“To be his heiress means a good deal, says Mrs. 
Amyot. 

“ Lady Bellair, they owe you an immense debt of grati- 
tude," laughs Halkett. “ In my opinion Sir Mutius would 
never have left them a penny if you had not talked of 
Margery's being, possibly, a beggar. 1 believe, in spite of 
yourself, you have done a good action to-day," 

“Well, really, I couldn't help it,” returns she apolo- 
getically. ^ „ _ _ 

“I am so glad their huppiness is <i-'.mred, says Mrs. 
Amyot warmlv. After ail— it is a poor thought I own 

but ‘uey has 'j '^ood deal to do with it. What? Will 

?:obo'jy r.grec with me? Am I"— with a reproachfully 

;in.usc<l glance all round the only mercenary person in 

the i'oom r OomQ to my i' ycue then. Lady Branksmere, I 
besco'h 'you.'” 


'l.'hiis lightly apiXialed to, Muriel hesitates, and involun- 
tarily giaricriig at Branksmere, she sees something in the 
earnest gaze he has fastened on her that dyes her face a 
waijxi, sweet crimson. 

am afraid you have chosen a bad advocate," she an- 
swers softly. “No, I do not think money has so very much 
to do with one's happiness. " 

“ What then?" 

“ Love," says Muriel, in a tender, tremulous tone. 


THE END. 


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bSS Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 


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004 My Poor Wife 10 

Works by *lie author of “ A Great 
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240 A Fatal Dower 10 

872 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

588 Cherry 10 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

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17 The Wooing O’t 20 

62 The Executor 20 

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^6 Which Shall it Be? 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker's Courier Maid... 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

664 At Bay 10 

Alisou’s Works. 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !”. . . 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

431 The House That Jack Built 10 

F. Austey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant's Robe 20 

603 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 
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R. M. Ballautyue’s Works. 

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16 Erling the Bold 10 

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Anne Beale’s Works. 

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547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

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^3 Love and Mirage ; or. The Wait- 
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579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

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594 Doctor Jacob 20 

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97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack lo 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

2.30 Dorothy Forster 20 

824 In Luck at Last 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer” lO 

William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells !!.' 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

89 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare .... 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 

70 White Wings: A 'Yachting 

mauce jq 


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78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 10 
627 White Heather 20 

R. D. Blackniore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lcrna Doone. 2d half......... 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerley 20 

626 Erema; or, Jly Father’s Sin... 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. First half... 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. Second half. 20 

631 Cliristowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 

632 ( lara Vaughan 20 

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636 Alice Lorraine. First half 20 

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153 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen 20 

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234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery.. 20 

263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 Tlie Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

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434 Wyllard s Weird 20 

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478 Diavola: or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
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480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited bj"^ Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

496 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Only a Clod 20 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

624 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

529 The Doctor’.s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

644 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 
Shadow in the Corner . 10 


649 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 


er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey... 10 

5.52 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey ^ 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

557 To the Bitter End 20 

559 Taken at the Flood ^ 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John March mont’s Legacy. . . . ^ 
618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Works by Charlotte M. Braemot 
Author of “ Bora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover ^ 

73 Redeemed by Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms.. 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure 20 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter ”.. 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

. ana’s Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

287 At War With Herself 10 

288 From Gloom t© Sunlight 10 

291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

294 Hilda 10 

295 A Woman’s War 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

43:1 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 20 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 


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Works by Charlotte M. Braeme— 


Continued. 

469 Lady Damer’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World ^ 

476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

raaine’s Divorce 20 

576 Her Martyrdom 20 


Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 


Hugh Conway’s Works. 

240 Called Back 10 

251 The Davighter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Days 10 

302 'I’he Blatcbford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A Family Affair 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 


15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley 20 

Rhoda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts 20 

227 Nancy 20 

645 Mrs. ^mith of Longmains 10 

Robert Buchanan’s Works. 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan 10 

646 The Master of the Mine 10 

Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor 20 

E. Fairfax Byrrne’s Works. 

621 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works. 

20 
20 
20 
20 


215 Not Like Other Girls 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement., 
551 Bari »ara Heathcote’s Trial. 
608 For Lilias 


Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot 10 

233 “ I Say No or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Pencj’’ 

and the Prophet 10 

023 My Lady’s Money 10 

( 3 ) 


J. Fenimore Cooper’s Works. 

60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy 20 

309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witch 20 

361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman ; or. The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons 20 

394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or, The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish... 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Mites Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack'l’ier: or. The Florida Reef 20 

419 TheChainbearer; or,The Little- 

page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts 20 

422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 

425 The Oak-Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter 20 

431 The Monikins 20 


Georgiana M. Craik’s Works* 

450 Godfrey Helstone 20 

606 Mrs. Hoi Iyer X 

B. M. Croker’s Works* 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 20 

260 Proper Pride 10 

412 Some One Else..... 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition, 


Alphonse Daudet’s VV^orks. 


634 Jack 20 

674 The Nabob: A Story of Parisian 
Life and Manners 20 

Charles Dickens’s Works. 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. II 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. First half. 20 
37 Nicholas Nickleby. Second half 20 

41 Oliver Twist 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

84 Hard Times 10 

91 Barnaby Pudge. 1st half 20 

91 Barriabv Rudge. 2d half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. Second half 20 

106 Bleak House. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. Second half 20 

107 Dornbey and Son. 1st half 20 

107 Dornbey and Son. 2d half 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 10 

131 Our Mutual Friend 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. . . 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 The Haunted Man 10 

4^17 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. Second half 20 

439 Great Expectations 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mudfog Papei s. &c 20 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood.. 20 
456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. 20 

F. Du Boisgobey’s Works. 

82 Sealed Lips 20 

104 The Coral Pin 30 

264 Pi6douche, a French Detective. 10 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

First half 20 

828 Babiole, the Prett}' Milliner. 

Second half 20 

453 The Lottery Ticket 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband.. 20 
522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. Steel 

Gauntlets 20 

123 The Consequences of a Duel. A 

Parisian Romance 20 

^8 The Angel of the Bells 20 

“The Duchess’s” Works. 

2 Molly Bawn 20 

6 Portia 20 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 10 

16 Phyllis 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 


29 Beauty’s Daughters 10 

30 Faith and Unfaiih 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. . . 10 

123 Sweet is True Love 10 

129 Rossmoyne 10 

134 The Witching Hour, and Other 

Stories 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,’’ and 

Other Stories 10 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

171 Fortune’s Wheel 10 

284 Doris 10 

312 A Week in Killaruey 10 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 


517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 10 

541 “As It Fell Upon a Day.” 10 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

55 The Three Guardsmen 20 

75 Twenty Years After 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 

Monte-Cristo ” 10 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part 1 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 
Part II 20 

George Eliot’s Works. 

3 The Mill on the Floss 20 

36 Adam Bede 20 

31 Middlemarch. 1st half 20 

31 Middlemarch. 2d half ^ 

34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half ^ 

34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half 20 

42 Romola 20 

B. Li. Farjeon’s Works. 

179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love’s Harvest 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget 20 

657 Christmas Angel 10 

G. Mauville Fenii’s Works, 

193 The Rosery Folk 10 

.558 Poverty Corner 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Dark House 1( 

Octave Fciiillet’s Works, 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man Id 

386 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
Oomtesse” If 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAEY. — Pocket Edition. 


'Mrs. Forrester's Works. 


80 June 20 

^ Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety IjO 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales 10 

Jessie Fothergill’s Works. 

314 Peril 20 

572 Healey ... 20 

K. E. Francilloii's Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face: A* Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm, Senior.. 10 


William H. G. Kingston's Works. 


117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 
133 Peter the Whaler 10 

Charles Lever’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer 2^ 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half...; 2) 

212 Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First 

half 20 

243 Tom Burke of ” Ours.” Sec- 
ond half 20 

Mary Unskill's Works. 

473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea 20 


Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 


7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

33 The Clique of Gold 10 

38 The Widow Le rouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival '. ... 20 

i44 Promises of Marriage 10 

Charles Gibbon's Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

jl7 By Mead and Stream 20 

Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

655 Cara Roma 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

John B. Harwood's Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

^24 The Arundel Motto 10 

281 The Squire's Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

Works by the Author of “ J udith 
Wynne.” 

.132 Judith Wynne 20 

W6 Lady Lovelace 20 

(6) 


Samuel Lover’s Works. 


663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More. 20 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton’s Works. 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
ond half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 


164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice; or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers ”) 20 

George Macdonald’s Works. 


282 Donal Grant 20 

325 The Portent 10 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women 10 

Florence Marryat’s Works. 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories 10 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

Stories 10 

208 The Ghcst of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 

449 Peeress and Player 20 

Captain Marryat’s Works. 

88 The Privateersman 20 

272 The Little Savage 10 

Helen B. Mathers’s Works. 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

221 Comiu’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

438 Found Out 10 

535 Murder or Manslaughter? 10 

673 Story of a Sin W 


THE SEASIDE LIBRABT.- Pocket Edition. 


Jnstin McCarthy’s Works. 

121 Maid of Athens 20 

®02 Camiola 20 

685 England Under Gladstone. 
1880-1885 20 

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller’s 
• Works. 

207 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser’s Treasure 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

816 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

Rodne 3 '’s Secret 20 

Jean Middlemas’s Works. 

156 Lad 3 ’^ Muriel’s Secret 20 

&19 Silvermead 20 


Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “Golden Girls’’ 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

245 Miss Tommy 10 


David Christie Murray’s Works. 


58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ” 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 


Works by the author of “My 
Ducats and My Daughter.” 


876 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
696 My Ducats and My Daughter. .. 20 


' W. E. Norris’s Works. 


184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

355 That Terrible Man 10 

500 Adrian Vidal 20 


377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation, . .. 20 
402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs Margaret Mait- 


land of Sunnyside 20 

410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Days of My Life 20 

628 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate 20 

569 Harry Muir 20 

603 Agnes. 1st half 20 

603 Agues. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent. 1st half 20 

604 Innocent. 2d half 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
trait 10 

“ Ouida’s ” Works. 

4 Under Two Flags 20 

9 AVanda, Countess von Szalras.. 20 

116 Moths 20 

128 Afternoon and Other Sketches. 10 

226 Friendship 20 

228 Princess Napraxine 20 

238 Pascarel 20 

239 Signa 20 

433 A Rainy June 10 

639 Othmar 20 

671 Don Gesnaldo 10 

672 In Maremma. First half 20 

672 In Maremma. Second half 20 

Janies Payn’s Works. 

48 Thicker Than Water 20 

186 The Canon’s Ward 20 

343 The Talk of the Town 20 

577 In Peril and Privation 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 20 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 20 

611 Babylon 20 

Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works. 

428 Zero: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 10 
477 Affinities 10 


Ijanrence Oiiphant’s Works. 


47 Altiora Peto 20 

637 Piccadilly 10 

Mrs. Oiiphant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 10 

837 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John 20 

370 Luc 3 ’ Crofton ; 10 

371 Margaret Maitland 20 


Eleanor C. Price’s Works. 

173 The Foreigners 20 

331 Gerald 20 

Charles Reade’s Works. 

46 Very Hard Cash 20 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 10 

213 A Terrible Temptation — 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Poul Play 20 

2;il Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy... 20 
232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Seciet 10 

235 “ It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of-Fact Ro- 
mance 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition, 


Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 


71 A Struq^le for Fame 20 

593 Berna Boyle 20 

“Rita’s” Works. 

252 A Sinless Secret 10 

446 Dame Durden 20 

598,“ Corinna.” A Study 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 


F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

157 Milly’sHero 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in London 20 

590 The Courting of Mary Smith. . . 20 

W. Clark Russell’s Works. 

86 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate.. 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 
Stories 20 


Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 

28 Ivanhoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

Monastery ”) W 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well 20 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

607 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories 10 


William Sime’s Works. 

4S9 Boulderstone ; or. New Men and 

Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer 10 

649 Cradle and Spade 20 


Hawley Smart’s Works. 

848 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance 20 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

150 Struck Down 10 


Frank £. Smedley’s Works. 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 


Pupil 2(1 

562 Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 
road of Life 20 

T. W. Speight’s Works. 

150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 


Fugeue Sue’s Works. 

270 The Wandering Jew. Parti... 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part H. . 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris, Parti. 20 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 

George Temple’s Works. 


599 I.ancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 

% 

William M, Thackeray’s Works. 

27 Vanity Fair 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

464 The Newcomes. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

531 The Prime Minister (1st half).. 20 
531 The Prime Minister (2d half).. 20 

Annie Thomas’s Works. 

141 She Loved Him! 10 

142 Jenifer 20 

565 No Medium 10 

Anthony Trollope’s Works. 

32 The Land Leaguers 20 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

147 Rachel Ray 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love 10 

531 The Prime Minister. 1st half. . 20 
531 The Prime Minister. 2d half. . . 20 

621 The Warden 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. . . 10 
667 The (iolden Lion of Granpere.. 20 

Margaret Veley’s Works. 

298 Mitchelhurst Place li 

586 “ For Percival ’’ 20 

Jules Verne’s Works. 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 29 
368 The Southern Star; or, the Dia- 
mond Land 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated, 

Part I 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part II 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 
Part III 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


li. B. Walford’s Works. 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 10 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 20 

258 Cousins 20 

658 The History of a Week lO 

F. Warden’s Works. 

192 At the World’s Mercy 20 

248 The House on the Marsh 10 

286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand 20 

482 A Vagrant Wife ^ 

466 A Prince of Darkness 20 

E. Werner’s Works. 

827 Raymond's Atonement 20 

540 At a High Price 20 

0.'J« Whyte-Melville’s Works. 

409 Roy’s Wife 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar 20 

John Strange Winter’s Works. 
492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. Il- 
lustrated 10 

600 Houp-La. Illustrated 10 

638 In Quarters with tl>e 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons 10 

Mrs. Henry Wood’s Works. 

8 East Lynne 20 

255 The Mystery 20 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters 10 

608 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 

and Other Tales 10 

Charlotte M. Yonge’s Works. 

247 The Armourer's Prentices 10 

275 The Three Brides 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish. ATale 10 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father 20 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest.. 20 

666 My Young Alcides 20 

Miscellaneous. 

63 The Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 
61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

99 Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

Edwards 20 

103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell. . 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M. G. 

Wightwick, 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

mioart 20 


115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Afiolphus Trollope 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. Thomas Hughes 20 

122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

th* Russian of Pushkin 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

erwick 10 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.’’ Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 
leod, D.D 10 

160 Hel- Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

ler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 30 

174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

tie J^ephson 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

Queen Victoria 10 

182 The Millionaire 20 

185 Dita. I.ady Margaret Majendie 10 
187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 
Bremer 10 

198 A Husband’s Story lO 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 

O’Rell 10 

218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James.. 20 

219 Lady Clare : or. The Master of 

the Forges. From French of 

Georges Ohnet 10 

242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 10 
253 The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer. . 10 
257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 
den 20 

285 The Gambler’s Wife ^ 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ’’ 10 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

313 The Lover's Creed. Mrs. Cash- 
el Hoey 20 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann-Chat- 
rian M 


THE SB ASIDE LIBRARY. -Pocket Edition. 


Misceiraneous— Continued. 


830 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 20 

834 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch 20 

338 The Family Difficulty. Sarah 
Doudney 10 

340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

Laura Jean Libbey 20 

347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 
364 The Lottery of Life. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham 20 


365 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 

land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 

366 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 

366 George Ciiristy ; or. The For- 
tunes of a Minstrel. Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mvsterious Hunter; or, 
The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Carleton . . . '. 20 

869 Miss Bretherton. Mj-s. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

874 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters. Edsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

ton Aid6... 10 

387 The Secret or the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte French 20 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

399 Mis.s Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An EnglLsh Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Mei’chant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. .. 20 
426 Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ’’ 10 

432 The Witch’s Head. H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

436 Stella. Fanny Lewaid 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 
452 In the West Conn trie. Maj’^ 

Crommelin 20 


467 The Russians at the Gates of 


Herat. Charles Marvin 10 

458 A Week of Passion; or. The 
Dilemina of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Lewis Carrol 

With forty-two illustrations 

by John Tenniel 20 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 

M. Stanley 1® 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 20 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maolaren 

Cobban . . . : 10 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

Malet 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

and Lord’’ 10 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman 10 

505 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 10 

509 Nell Hafif end en. Tighe Hopkins 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
ces Poynter 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

545 Vida’s Story. By the autlnor ef 

“ Guiity Without Crime ” 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh 20 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, 

The Black Watch in Egypt. 

James Grant 20 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 

niyns Carr 10 

575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 
Mayne Reid 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Alles-sandro Manzoni 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needed 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith. . 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

595 A North Cotintry Maid. Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ’’ 20 

614 No. 99. Arthur Griffiths 10 

624 Primus in Indis. M. J. Colqu- 

houn 10 

628 Wedded Hands. Author of 
“ My Lady’s Folly ” 90 


THE SEASIDE LIBU ART. —Pocket Edition. 


Misoe’Ianeoii 8— Continued. 
634 The Unforeseen. Alice O’Han- 


lon 20 

637 What’s His Offence? 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. Stuart C. 
Cumberland 10 

643 The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey 

Crayon, Gent. Washington 
Irving 20 

644 A Girton Girl. Mrs. Annie Ed- 

wards 20 

652 The Lady with the Rubies. E. 


tlVti****. ^\J 

654 “ Us.” Au Old-fashioned Story. 

Mrs. 3Iolesworth 10 

662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 
Isabella Fy vie Mayo 20 


675 Mrs. Dymond. Miss Thackeray 20 
677 Griselda. Author of “ A 'Wom- 


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668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 
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679 Wliere Two W'ays Meet. Sarah 

Doudney 10 

681 A Singer’s Story. May Lafifan. 10 

683 Tlie Bachelor "Vicar of New- 

forth. Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe . 20 

680 Fast knd Loose. Arthur Grif- 

fiths 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. Robert Louis 
Stevenson 10 


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626 A Fair Mystery. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

669 The Philosophy of Whist. By 

William Pole 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce. By David Christie 
Murray 20 

696 Thaddeus of W^arsaw. B3' Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

697 The Prettj' Jailer. B3’ F. Du 

Boise:obe3'. 1st half 20 

697 The Pretty Jailer. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

698 A Life’s Atonement. B3' David 

Christie Murra3' 20 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boi.sgobe3^ Ist half... 20 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boisgobe3\ 2d half... 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

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700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 2d half 20 


701 The Woman in M’Jiite. Wilkie 

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701 The Woman in White. Wilkie 

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702 Man and Wife By Wilkie Col- 

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702 Man and Wife. By AVilkie Col- 

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703 A House Divided Against Itself. 

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701 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 
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705 The Woman I Loved, and the 

Woman Who Loved Me. By 
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706 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

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707 Silas Marner. The AVeaver of 

Raveloe. B>' George Eliot. . . 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 

709 Zenobia : o.r, the Fall of Palm3M-a 

By AA’illiam AA'are. 1st half.. 20 

709 Zenobia; or, the Fall of Palmyra 

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710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 

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711 A Cardinal Sin. By Hugh Con- 


way 


20 


712 For Maimie’s Sake. B3’ Grant 


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713 “Cherry Ripe!” By Helen B. 

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714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

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715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

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NO. PRICK. 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

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717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 

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721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

722 AA’hat’s Mine's Mine. By George 

Macdonald 2C’ 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

AA’emyss Reid 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady. By 

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725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 

727 Fair AA’'omen. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

728 Janet s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 10 

729 Mignon. Mrs. Forrester 20 

730 The Autobiography of Benja- 

min Franklin 10 

731 The Bayou Bride. By Mrs. Mary 

E. Bryan 20 

732 From Gl3’mpus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

733 Lady Branksniere. By “The 

Duche.«s ” 20 

7.34 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

735 Until the Day Bi*eaKS. By 

Emily Spender 20 

736 R03' and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

Murray 10 

738 In the Golden Da3's. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

739 The Caged Lion. By Charlotte 

M. Yoiige 20 

740 Rhona. By' Mrs. Forrester 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or, 

Tiie Romance of a Yoting 
Girl. B3' ( harlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 


744 'Diana Carew; or. For a Wom- 
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745 For Another’s Sin , or, A Strug- 

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746 Cavalry Life; or, Sketches and 

Stories in Bari'acics and Out. 

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747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P.. 10 

748 Hnrrish ; A Study. By the 

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749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

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